


The Tourney of the Seven

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Injury, POV Alternating, Romance, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, hypocrisy of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: Every seventh spring a tourney is held in King's Landing to honor the Seven-Faced God. Each kingdom sends seven maidens and seven warriors to compete for one of Westeros' highest honors.This year Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane are among the competitors.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 67
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Sansa**

Even Arya’s pesky antics couldn’t dim Sansa’s spirits on this day, the day Sansa had been waiting for since she was two and ten. Five years of patient waiting, diligent effort, and gradually chipping away at her father’s resolve had led to this. Sansa was officially named one of the seven maiden representatives from the North. In two days she would leave for the capital for the Tourney of the Seven.

The Tourney took place every seventh spring. With the duration of seasons being unpredictable, sometimes many decades would pass between tourneys.

The last tourney was more than twenty years ago, and Sansa grew up on fantastical tales of the maidens and warriors who traveled to the capital for their chance at a fairy tale. Sansa’s aunt Lyanna had been among the representatives from the North. She was not ultimately crowned as the Maiden, but it was at the tourney that she met the man who would become her husband – Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. It was all rather scandalous – Rhaegar was already married, but he fell in love with Lyanna and had his first marriage annulled. Lyanna died in the childbed a year later and they say Rhaegar died of a broken heart. It was a sad tale, but Sansa could look past the unhappy ending and fantasize about meeting a handsome and fierce warrior and falling deeply in love with him. She often wondered if Lyanna had died happy – was one year with Rhaegar better than a lifetime without him?

The crowned Maiden of that tourney had been Cersei Lannister; the crowned Warrior had been Robert Baratheon. Shortly after the tourney, Robert raised an army against the mad Targaryen king of Westeros, Aegon II, and claimed the Iron Throne. Of course, Robert’s Rebellion had nothing to do with the Tourney of the Seven. The tourney had been held for many centuries, since well before the kingdoms were united under Targaryen rule. Though the Targaryens were not loved, and the Mad King was particularly cruel, Sansa heard rumors over the years that the real motive of Robert’s rebellion was vengeance against Rhaegar Targaryen’s family, after the man had taken the woman Robert was allegedly in love with – Lyanna Stark.

This and other tales of love and violence associated with the tourney did nothing to diminish the event in Sansa’s mind. The notion that two men fell so helplessly in love with her aunt made Sansa giddy and a bit envious. Lyanna was a kind woman but no great beauty, from what Sansa had heard over the years – if she could get _two_ men fawning over her, then surely Sansa could capture the hearts of several of the warrior representatives. Would those men fight that much harder? Compete more fiercely? It was all so romantic she could hardly bare it.

The tourney consisted of two competitions that occurred simultaneously. The _Maiden’s Tourney_ wasn’t truly a tourney. The women – seven from each kingdom – did not wield sword or bow, but rather kindness and beauty. The woman ultimately crowned Maiden embodied the pinnacle of grace, beauty, intelligence, and compassion. She was the woman who best personified the Maiden and the Crone. Thus, the representatives were judged by a seven-member panel of Septas and Septons based on several attributes: beauty, learnedness, talent, and manner. Talent was Sansa’s preferred category, because she was an accomplished singer and also excelled at embroidery. She could sew incredibly detailed patterns onto the most delicate fabrics. And her singing voice was praised by all of her family and household staff as sounding like a warm spring breeze, a whisper of the Gods.

The Warrior’s competed in an actual tourney consisting of joust, melee, archery, and sparring. To represent the Smith, each contender must fight only with weapons he forged himself for the melee and sparring matches. While deaths were not unheard of in the elimination matches, only the final duel on the seventh day, between the last two contenders, was a match to the death. The sacrifice of one of the fiercest men in the realm was intended to honor the Stranger.

Both competitions took place over the course of seven days, at the end of which there would be one maiden and one warrior, who would be wed a sennight later in the Great Sept of Baelor in front of an audience that included smallfolk and nobles alike. The couple would be rewarded with a generous amount of gold and a castle where they would live as revered members of society until the end of their days. After their first child was born, they’d be referred to as Father and Mother – the final homage to the Seven-faced God. That child would be of a high station even if both parents were of low birth.

It was infrequent for the winning maiden to not hail from a noble house, but the scales were more even in the Warrior’s Tourney. Bastards and men of low birth could become fierce fighters and capable blacksmiths, though it was rare for common women to be well educated and artistically talented.

It troubled Sansa not the least bit that, should she win, she might be matched with a man well below her station, because he would instantly be raised to a respected position. Moreover, she dreamed of being matched with a brave knight – a man who was a capable fighter just like her father, brother, and cousin were. And if he happened to have blond hair and rich brown eyes, she wouldn’t complain.

It was not an exaggeration to say that Sansa was obsessed with the prospect of being named the Maiden and later the Mother. Her father was opposed to it, of course. For one thing, he had been ready to match her with one of his bannerman’s sons since she turned four-and-ten – three years ago. He believed she should marry and stay within the North.

For another thing, his sister Lyanna’s experience had made him wary of the entire Tourney experience, even though Sansa pointed out that Lyanna didn’t die during the Tourney.

And, lastly, he still kept the Old Gods and didn’t subscribe to the Faith of the Seven. He respected it, of course, since Sansa’s mother followed the newer religion, but he himself did not believe in it (and, Sansa suspected, found it rather foolish).

Sansa’s mother voiced different concerns – that Sansa would be corrupted by her time in the capital. That she only had a one in forty-nine chance of winning and would be devastated if she lost. That if she did win, she might not find her husband to be a favorable match.

But Sansa could not be dissuaded from her lifelong dream. Further, it felt like destiny that she would turn seven-and-ten (the minimum age for maiden representatives) only a month before the tourney. Sansa used to think the age limit was arbitrary but recognized that she had been biased – she had spent five years worrying that the next spring would come before she turned seven-and-ten. Now that the stars had aligned for her, she was grateful for the age rule, knowing it meant many younger girls would not be qualified. _Less competition_.

Yes, today was a good day. Today she learned that she had been selected as one of the seven Northern representatives. Her and the other representatives, along with a group Septas and knights sworn to the Faith, would travel to the capital where the Tourney would officially begin in two moons.

**Sandor**

Sandor sharpened his sword, hoping the repetitive motion would relieve the frenetic energy coursing through his veins.

Throughout most of his twenty-seven-year existence he’d had only one aspiration: to kill his brother Gregor. It would have been easy enough when they were youths, sleeping under the same roof, to slit his brother’s throat in his sleep, but Sandor wasn’t brave enough to do it then. Moreover, he wanted to look in Gregor’s eyes when he butchered him. He wanted Gregor to die knowing it was _him_ who’d put him down – the little brother he abused so cruelly by holding his face in the flames of a brazier, laughing all the while.

He wanted Gregor to know his death was at the hands of the monster he had created.

Both Clegane brothers were feared throughout the Westerlands and beyond. They both served the Warden of the West – Tywin Lannister – and were personally responsible for many of the evil deeds that Tywin ordered over the years. They were both killers, both fighters. But unlike Gregor, Sandor only fought and killed for a _cause_. It didn’t matter whether the cause was a command from his liege lord or a cross look from another man at a tavern. He didn’t kill randomly, nor did he rape. He was a killer, indeed, but he upheld a minimum amount of honor, even if only to maintain a distinction between himself and Gregor.

Both brothers were easy selections for the Tourney of the Seven, even if no one was pleased to make the choice. But by the faith’s own rules, the seven best fighters in each kingdom, that could also forge their own weapons, must be chosen. No one could deny Sandor and Gregor Clegane were not just _among_ the best – they _were_ the best.

This was Sandor’s chance. He would not take the rest of the competition lightly, but he somehow knew it would come down to he and Gregor in the final duel. One would die, the other would win. The winner would receive gold, a castle, and a bride. Sandor didn’t mind the gold, though he never cared to have a lordship or a wife. But if he should win, he would endure all the ‘m’lords’ and the vapid little wife gladly, while savoring the memory of slicing Gregor open, impaling him with his longsword, or separating his ugly head from his over-sized body.

This would be his best and perhaps _only_ chance for retribution. Gregor was never alone; he surrounded himself with a group of strays as twisted and violent as himself. Plus, as a sworn man of Tywin Lannister, he was under the Great Lion’s protection. If Sandor murdered Gregor, it would cost him his own head. Not the worst prospect, but he was looking forward to living in a world without Gregor Clegane, even if just for a few moons. But killing him in the final duel of the Tourney would be sanctioned by the Faith and the laws of the Crown. Sandor would walk away a hero instead of a kinslayer. Not that he cared to be called a hero, but he certainly didn’t want to be executed as a kinslayer. It would be a great insult, for Gregor might share his blood, but he was no kin of Sandor’s.

Sandor and Gregor both would be too old when the next tourney came around. Men were eligible between the ages of 24 and 31. Women were eligible between 17 and 24. It was a bunch of horseshit, no matter that it was wrapped up in the pretty dressings of the Faith. If it were truly about pairing the greatest warrior with the finest maiden, there would be no age limit. The age limit was a reflection of the fact that no man wanted to marry a woman older than himself, nor a girl too young to bear children (well, some creepers did), but all Sandor wondered was why any man would want to marry a 24-year-old maiden. Who other than a prude with a frozen cunt would still be a maiden at four-and-twenty?

Sandor shook his head, not caring to try to make sense out of the hypocrisy of the Faith any longer. This Tourney represented one thing and one thing only: the chance to finally put down the mad dog that was Gregor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on ages - I aged up Sansa because I'm just more comfortable writing her a bit older, plus I think it makes sense for the Faith to have a lower age limit on the maidens since they're supposed to marry immediately after the tourney and move into their role of 'father and mother' instead of 'warrior and maiden'. The maiden, as described by the faith, is a young woman, not a girl. 
> 
> Also, because the Faith is overly-obsessed with a woman's "virtue", a woman who can get to 17 without losing her virginity is a good embodiment of the maiden, and that's something that the faith would take into account - someone saving herself for the sake of the tourney.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sansa**

Sansa was overwhelmed by the capital in all its decadence. Paved streets. Ornate buildings. Marble floors. Open breezeways and balconies everywhere. Black and gold décor in every room.

Perhaps it was good that the Northern delegation was among the last to arrive, for surely the splendor would have overtaken Sansa’s senses. Having little time to think about her surroundings allowed Sansa to focus on maintaining the perfect image she had tirelessly cultivated over the years.

There was an opening ceremony and feast held in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The King and Queen addressed their guests, and a Septon read each of the ninety-eight names of the competitors, one kingdom at a time. It was only during this moment that Sansa felt self-conscious. She had been the jewel of Winterfell; a blue winter rose. She grew up hearing that her beauty was unmatched. But here, she was surrounded by young ladies of impeccable breeding. From Dorne were seven beauties with dark hair and skin the color of caramel. From the Westerlands were seven beauties with bronze skin, fair eyes and hair – much like Queen Cersei herself. The Vale, Stormlands, Reach, and Riverlands produced more eclectic groups of representatives – some with dark hair, some with fair hair, some tan, some pale.

All the representatives from the North except for Sansa had dark hair and eyes, and Sansa began panicking as she realized she was the only one of forty-nine ladies that had bright red hair. Some from the Reach, Westerlands, or Riverlands had what could be called strawberry blond hair, but none had her fiery locks. She stuck out like a sore thumb, and her cheeks flushed with shame as her name was called. Still she stood tall and proud, smiling and curtsying for the King and Queen as was custom. She passed her eyes over the men on the other side of the room with a warm smile still glued to her lips.

She sat down feeling proud that she hadn’t let her insecurity turn her into a fumbling fool, but her pride was shattered when a low voice grumbled from one of the men’s tables, “Pretty little thing. Never had me a redhead.”

Sansa’s head snapped up to follow the voice back to its owner and was horrified to find the man staring at her. He towered over the other men even while sitting, and he was so broad he took up half the length of the table. His eyes peered at her while a twisted smile curled his lips.

A few men chuckled at his comment. Even King Robert seemed amused until Queen Cersei glared at him. He then cleared his throat, “May I remind our warrior representatives that our lovely maidens are to be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy.”

Sansa turned around to face her companions, most of whom looked back at her with compassion. She smiled weakly, hoping to communicate that she was alright. She couldn’t let this one man get under her skin. She needed to be poised and confident to win. And not winning was not an option.

…

The day before The Tourney started, Sansa was appalled to realize that her virtue would be confirmed in a medical sense. The women lined up outside a row of three offices somewhere in the lower level of the keep. Each was brought into a room where a Septa, under supervision of a Septon, would perform a physical examination. Sansa began to panic. When she was younger, her Septa cautioned her not to rough play with her siblings or ride a horse any way but side-saddle at risk of damaging her precious maidenhead. While she heeded the woman’s warnings, she couldn’t say she’d _never_ frolicked about with her siblings. What if her maidenhead was gone even though she’d never lain with a man? It would be so unfair!

Luckily such did not come to pass for Sansa, though that did not make the examination any less humiliating. She learned at the evening meal that seven women had been disqualified that day. _Seven!_ An entire kingdom’s equivalent of her competition gone. She felt sorry for those ladies even as she knew it helped her odds. If she was going to win, every woman around her was an opponent, no matter how politely they all treated one another.

Sansa was deep in her own conflicted thoughts when a pretty brunette sat down beside her, “Hello. I’m Margaery Tyrell.”

“Hello, I’m Sansa Stark.”

“I know. The Northern Princess.”

“I’m sorry?”

Margaery rolled her eyes, “Everyone calls you the Northern Princess. Though a few of the men call you the Winter Rose. Both are said as compliments.”

“Oh. Well that is nice to hear.”

“I thought we should meet, since they call me the _Summer_ Rose. Us roses must stick together!” Margaery beamed radiantly.

“Of course. I’ve heard many great things about House Tyrell.”

Margaery rolled her eyes for the second time, “I’m sure it hasn’t _all_ been great, but you’re sweet to say so. Perhaps you’ve heard of my brother, Ser Garlan. He is a famed knight. He is also participating in the Tourney. Of course, no one knows what will happen if he and I both win, but I doubt that will come to pass.”

“Oh no? But you are one of the loveliest ladies here, and if you’re brother is such a capable knight, I’m sure you’ll both do splendidly!”

“Well, the competition is great; we will both be honored simply to represent our house well. Ah, there is Garlan now,” Margaery waved over a young man whose physique made Sansa’s eyes widen of their own accord. He was tall, perhaps taller than father, with broad, well-muscled shoulders. He had honey brown hair and eyes to match Margaery’s, and dimples that formed when he smiled at the pair of women.

“Sweet sister,” Garlan bowed, “This must be Lady Sansa Stark. I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I remember few of the ladies’ names from the night of our introductions, but yours is one of them.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush, “How kind of you to say, Ser.”

He tipped his head humbly, “I must also say, seeing you up close, I now know why the men have taken to calling you the _winter rose_. You’re even more lovely than the sigil of our noble house.”

Sansa knew to take such compliments with modesty, “But not nearly as lovely as your own dear sister. She was just telling me that she has a similar nickname – the Summer Rose.”

“Indeed,” Garlan appeared to hesitate, “Speaking of roses… I’d be honored to accompany you on a tour of the Royal Gardens, if you haven’t a chance to see them yet.”

Sansa desperately wanted to accept, but it was improper to let a man escort her without a chaperone.

“That sounds lovely, Ser Garlan, allow me to call a Septa to accompany—”

“Oh there’s no need to bother an old lady at this hour,” Margaery winked, “I’ll join you. Certainly a sister is qualified to be a chaperone.”

Sansa wasn’t certain this was the case but didn’t want to be rude to the friendly Tyrell siblings. It was said that the judges were constantly observing. A lady could never drop her courtesy if she wanted to win.

She smiled at Margaery, “In that case, a brief stroll through the Gardens would be most welcome. It will be good to stretch my legs.”

The trio walked and chatted through the moon and lantern lit gardens. Margaery was much less proper out here in the semi-privacy. She prattled on about men she found comely, teasing Garlan about which men he should let best him, if he truly cared for his sweet sister.

Margaery walked a few paces behind Garlan and Sansa, taking her role as chaperone seriously. But at some point, Margaery became oddly quiet, and Sansa turned to find she was no longer with them.

“Oh dear, we’ve lost your sister, Ser.”

“Have we?” Garlan turned and shrugged, “I’m sure we’ll meet up with her again.”

A strange feeling settled somewhere between Sansa’s heart and stomach. While trying to decipher it, she allowed Garlan to lead her a few more paces into the Gardens but then asked if they could stop.

“Are you well, my lady?”

“I am; only I am worried for Margaery. She shouldn’t be unaccompanied. I think we should turn back, ser.”

Garlan reached up and tucked a stray lock of Sansa’s hair behind her ear. She backed away but his other arm had somehow coiled around her waist.

“Perhaps Margaery left us so we could get more closely acquainted. You see, I’ve confessed to my sister that I fancy you,” he chuckled shyly but there was nothing shy about the look in his eyes.

Sansa squirmed within his strong arms to no avail, “Please, ser. Your words are flattering but your actions are… _improper_.”

He ignored her protest, “I’d very much like to host you at Highgarden when this Tourney is over. Assuming neither of us wins.”

“Ser, please let go of me. We can discuss my visit back in the hall, with the others.”

He leaned close even as Sansa tried to push against his chest, “Sansa, sweet Sansa. I cannot kiss you in the hall, and a woman as lovely as you deserves to be kissed well and often.”

“Ser!” Sansa yelled but it was muffled by his lips. She smacked her hands against his chest, but he was as immoveable as a tree trunk.

Then, without preamble, he pulled away. When Sansa opened her eyes, she realized he hadn’t stepped back of his own accord; he had been yanked off of her. An even taller man with dark hair and hate-filled eyes was grasping Garlan by the shoulder, using his other hand to pin Garlan’s arm behind his back. It looked quite painful, as Garlan kept wincing.

“You know who I am, boy?” the man rasped. His voice was rough and low.

As the man sneered down at Garlan, Sansa spied the other side of his face. It was covered in heavy scarring that stretched from the corner of his mouth up to his scalp. Sansa took a step back, not knowing which man she should fear.

“The… the Hound,” Garlan hissed.

“Aye, then you know when I tell you that I’ll cut off your cock and shove it up your arse if you ever bother this lady again, that not only do I mean it, but I am more than capable of doing it.”

Garlan nodded rapidly.

“Good. Tell your whore of a sister that if she’d like to keep her face pretty, she’ll also leave the girl alone.”

Just as abruptly as it all happened, Garlan was released and ran toward the hall without looking back. Sansa’s savior turned and headed the other direction while Sansa stood frozen in fright. But obviously, if he meant to do her harm he wouldn’t simply walk away.

“I’m sorry Ser, but I do not know your name,” she called to his back.

The man stopped and turned, his sneer now directed at her, “I am no _ser_ , and I don’t see why you’d care to know my name.”

“Apologies, my lord. I only wish to know who to thank for intervening on my behalf.”

“Not a lord, either. And save your _thanks_ for someone who wants them.”

Her turned to leave again but she followed, “But it is not proper to let such a good deed go without reward or recognition!”

He turned around once more, “My _reward_ is getting to drink in peace out here without having to listen to the sounds of _rape_. And I need no recognition.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open. Had he just spoken so crudely to her?!

“My- Ser- Whoever you are, I am simply trying to thank you, and you are speaking to me like some—”

The man closed the gap in three long strides and grapsed Sansa by the chin, “Like some what? Some dog? Some bastard? Some scoundrel? What word was going to come out of your pretty little mouth, hmm?”

Her lips moved several times before the answer came out, “Like someone without manners.”

The stranger threw his head back and laughed heartily before dropping his chin again and meeting Sansa’s eyes, “Someone without manners? I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a horrible insult. You _wound_ me; I’m deeply offended, my lady.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you! I apologize, I was just trying to make a point.”

He laughed some more, “You really are this polite, aren’t you? It’s not an act.”

Sansa shook her head, “I truly prefer not to hurt anyone’s feelings, if it can be avoided. I’m sorry that I have offended you. Whether you wish it or not, Ser, you have my gratitude. And until you tell me what to call you, I will have to call you Ser. Or my lord.”

The humor left his face, but his sneer did not return. He was staring at her as if in confusion, though she did not know what she said that wasn’t perfectly clear.

He snorted once, “You’re like a pretty little bird, aren’t you? Chirping the nice things you think people want to hear… Well chirp less, listen more. Listen when I tell you to steer clear of all the men. We’re all a bunch of savages, killing each other for the chance at a bit of a gold, a nice castle, and a warm slit. You’d best avoid all of us, and not just the ugly ones like me.”

Sansa wasn’t sure she agreed, but his words were spoken genuinely and, though crudely delivered, were clearly well intentioned.

“I understand, Ser. I appreciate the warning and I shall heed it.” For long moments they stared at each other. Sansa didn’t know what he was looking for, or what he found, but she knew what she was looking for. A hint that beneath the frightening visage and rough manners was an honorable man. Because how could he not be honorable if he saved her from another man’s unwanted advances and did so without seeking recognition or even gratitude? The answer seemed to lay in his grey eyes. They were not looking down on her. They bore no disgust or even lust. They were simply exploring; probing. They reminded her of an animal when trying to decide if a human was friend or foe.

She wondered of this man’s birth. He acted like a commoner, but something told her the man was no fool. Though she supposed even a commoner could have gained wisdom through a hard life. Maester Luwin used to say we don’t learn from success, only failure. We don’t grow stronger from comfort, only adversity. The man before her seemed wise and strong. He also, despite his scars, looked like he could have been a noble. He had a strong brow, jaw, and cheekbones. His nose was hooked but not over-large, and the half of his lips that weren’t ruined were rather well-shaped. He had what mother called “the northern look”. Dark, tall, and strong, though this man’s complexion was more tanned than any Northman ever was. Then again, had he lived in the North he’d likely have a much fairer complexion due to the weaker sunlight.

The man was still staring at her, and it seemed he hadn’t blinked or moved a single muscle for all the seconds that passed. Sansa forced a small smile onto her face, “I still don’t know what to call you, Ser. And I hope it is not forward of me to say, but I do not find you ugly.”

 _Courtesy is a lady’s armor,_ her mother’s voice reminded her.

She had a feeling he would protest or mock her, so she turned and began walking back toward the hall, only now hoping her absence hadn’t been noticed. If push came to shove, she could explain that Garlan Tyrell had made unwanted advances. She thought her tall protector would corroborate her story, even if he would prefer not to be involved.

“Sandor Clegane,” his rough voice called when she was nearly out of hearing distance.

It stopped her in her tracks, but she did not turn back, only swiveled her head a bit so her voice would carry to him when she responded, “I’m glad to meet you, Sandor Clegane. I am Sansa Stark.”

She continued walking but could hear laughter behind her, “I know, little bird.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Tourney Day 1_ **

**Sandor**

The first match was a melee. Seven men, one from each kingdom, would face off in the fighting pit. The first three to fall would be eliminated, leaving twenty-eight men to move on to the next day’s event.

Sandor took nothing for granted, but was confident that out of any seven men, he was better than at least three.

He smiled to himself when he saw the Tyrell whelp who’d dared to put his hands and lips on the pretty little bird would be one of his opponents. But Sandor would not seek to engage the man for that fact alone, as tempting as it was. He had taken his time in the prior days to observe his opponents in the training yard. The Tyrell knight was good, better than most. Getting to Gregor remained Sandor’s only goal, and he wouldn’t risk it over a petty grievance.

Sandor eyed the other competition. The young Dornishman was also best to be avoided. Men from Dorne were slight and wore frilly garbs, but they were crafty fighters. This man would fight with a lance rather than a sword, and that would negate Sandor’s reach advantage.

The contender from the North was a burly man, also best to be avoided. Sandor would attempt to square off against one of the men from the Vale, Stormlands, or Riverlands, but he’d watch his back, knowing Tyrell might try to eliminate Sandor, knowing what he knew.

The horn blew and the circle of seven became three groups. Sandor got his wish as the Vale knight approached him. In his periphery he saw Tyrell engage the Riverlands man, while the Northman and Stormlands knight joined together to take on the Dornishman.

His opponent was sure-footed, and stronger than he looked. Sandor took his time, letting the man make the first moves so he could search for any weaknesses. He continued to circle the man, forcing his back to face the other fighters. When Sandor made his first earnest thrust, the man parried easily.

The dance continued, each man clearly respecting his opponent, but eventually Sandor’s brute strength was tiring out the knight. The man knew time was not on his side, and his moves became less guarded.

It was a forceful jab to the man’s left side that won it for Sandor. The swords were dulled but still drew blood, and the man yielded almost before his back hit the ground.

Sandor looked around. The Dornishman had fallen, and Tyrell was putting down his opponent. Sandor didn’t even have to raise his sword again. His melee was over. The warriors from the North, Reach, Westerlands, and Stormlands would move forward.

**Sansa**

In front of an audience that included the seven judges and five of her fellow maidens, Sansa took a deep breath to steady herself. She began plucking her harp strings as she sang the song of _Florian and Jonquil_ , the unlikely couple who put love before the rules of society. Her voice was clear as a bell, but she kept it soft even as she projected some of the notes to demonstrate the strength of her vocal cords.

When the song was concluded, Sansa smiled and curtsied and stepped to the side.

Two other ladies also chose to sing. The Dornish girl performed a dance that Sansa thought was a tad too exotic. The other two made pencil sketches, and Sansa begrudgingly admitted their art was impressive. There was no representative from the Vale – she was among the girls disqualified after the Septa’s examination.

As the ladies gathered around a tea service waiting to hear the judges’ selections, Sansa was glad that Margaery Tyrell had not been in her group. She didn’t think she could face the girl after what happened with her brother Garlan. It was not ladylike, but Sansa hoped the Tyrell siblings would be quickly eliminated. She wasn’t sure precisely what Margaery and Garlan had planned, but Sansa wasn’t so naïve as to not know they were trying to disgrace her in some way. Perhaps Margaery had hoped to return to the gardens with a Septa and _happen_ upon Sansa and Garlan in the throes of passion.

A dark-haired girl from the Riverlands was friendly with Sansa while they waited. She explained that her father served House Tully – Sansa’s mother’s house. The Tullys were a respected family and fair lords, the girl said. She seemed genuine enough, but Sansa was wary of letting her guard down, lest she be another Margaery Tyrell. Sansa conversed with her politely, nonetheless, knowing the judges would observe all the interactions. Sansa complimented her on her performance – she too chose to sing and had been quite good.

The judges clearly took their role seriously. They deliberated for two hours before announcing the four victors of the first day’s competition. Both of the girls who had drawn sketches moved forward, as did the kindly girl from the Riverlands, Jeyne. Sansa’s heart began to sink as she realized all her hopes and dreams would be nothing but dust if her name was not spoken next.

She held her breath, using all her willpower to appear gracious instead of nervous.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark,” the eldest judge proclaimed.

Sansa smiled widely and curtsied once again. She made sure to offer comforts and well wishes to the two girls eliminated.

That night Sansa retired immediately after eating, hoping to avoid another unpleasant encounter. It was only as she stood to leave the hall that she let her eyes travel to the men’s side of the room. She found him instantly, her savior. His eyes were already fixed on her, to her surprise, but she recovered quickly enough to offer him a friendly smile.

**Sandor**

Sandor watched the little bird retire before he made his way outside to enjoy his wine in peace. It felt wrong to leave her in the same room as _Ser_ Gregor and _Ser_ Garlan, no matter that all the contenders were unarmed, and that more than a dozen of the knights of the Faith and Royal Guards were posted throughout the hall.

With wineskin in hand he made his way toward the gardens, but heavy footsteps followed him. He didn’t need to look to know who those feet belonged to. “Gregor,” he growled.

“ _Little_ brother,” Gregor replied before the footsteps continued. Gregor walked until he stood in front of Sandor, staring down at a man not accustomed to being seen from that angle.

“Where are you off to?” Gregor inquired in a not-so-innocent tone.

“To drink in peace. What of it?”

“Not scampering after that pretty little redhead, are you?”

Sandor’s blood stilled in his veins, but he let no emotion trace his countenance, “ _Who?_ ”

Gregor snorted, “The Winter Rose. So red, so pretty… in perfect bloom… ready to be _plucked_ , don’t you think?”

Sandor scoffed even though his heart was pounding, “I’m here for the gold. I pay no mind to the simpering girls.”

“Your eyes tell a different tale, brother.”

“I’m not your fucking brother, and haven’t you better things to do then watch my eyes?”

“So you weren’t staring at her all night, then?”

“And what if I was? A dog is allowed to eye a nice lamb chop now and again, isn’t he?”

Gregor snorted again, and Sandor cursed himself for being so transparent in his admiration of the girl. There was no crime in looking, all the other men did, if not at Sansa Stark than at any number of the other girls. But he should have known that merely letting a girl catch his eye was enough to earn that girl Gregor’s unwanted attention.

Sandor moved to walk around his brother’s giant form, but Gregor stilled him with a hand to the chest. Sandor clenched his jaw and fists, fighting the feverish desire to end Gregor right here, once and for all.

“Don’t worry little brother: _when_ I win, and _if_ she wins, I’ll let you have a taste.”

This time Sandor snorted, “A taste of your discarded scraps? No thank you.”

Sandor moved again and this time Gregor let him pass, only to chuckle at his back, “Sleep well, little brother. I know I will, with visions of all the ways I might use your pretty little lamb chop.”

Sandor didn’t miss a step as he continued into the gardens, though when he finally sat against the base of a tree and lifted the spout to his lips, his hand was trembling.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Tourney Day 2_ **

**Sansa**

There were twenty-eight maidens remaining for the second competition, which was something of a quiz. Each girl was given a few sheets of parchment on which to write her answers to a series of questions that had been written on a chalkboard by the Septon.

There were four categories: Noble Houses of Westeros, History of Westeros, Faith of the Seven, and Household Affairs.

Sansa knew all her answers on the noble houses were correct. She could recognize sigils, family mottos, and the house seat of virtually every house in Westeros.

History was a bit more challenging, but Sansa felt certain that five of her ten answers were correct and was confident enough in two of her other answers. Seven out of ten might be good enough since she would no doubt have ten out of ten correct in the previous category.

For the Faith category, it wasn’t a set of questions to be answered but rather a prompt to write a short essay on which of the Seven you most admire and why. Sansa figured many girls would choose to write about the Mother or the Maiden. She instead chose the Crone, rationalizing that mankind can never have enough wisdom. A maiden’s beauty and innocence fade, as does a warrior’s strength. While a warrior is needed in times of war, wisdom serves us well in times of war _and_ peace. Finally, wisdom can only be gained through many years of life experience, thus it is one of the most valuable commodities of the Seven Gods.

Household Affairs was easy for Sansa. Her mother had groomed her to be the lady of a great house. She knew all about customs and traditions, as well as basic mathematics. _If one roast pig feeds twenty mouths, and your feast will host 160 guests, how many pigs must be butchered?_

_Eight!_

She finished before most of the other girls and took advantage of the time to re-check all of her answers, looking for ambiguously worded questions that may have been intended to trick her into choosing an obvious answer instead of thinking the problem through.

All twenty-eight women took the test in a midsize hall within the Great Keep. The eight with the lowest scores would be eliminated. Sansa felt confident in her chances and allowed her mind to wander…

Inexplicably, she imagined the way Sandor Clegane had been staring at her the prior night after dinner. Had he been watching her throughout the entire meal? The idea was both thrilling and frightening. She smiled to herself wondering if he was watching over her protectively, wary that Garlan Tyrell or some other man might try to make advances on her once again. Sandor was large and rough, but didn’t that mean he could protect her better than almost any other man?

It was odd that two nights ago she began the evening admiring Garlan Tyrell’s handsome face and smooth words, only to end up admiring Sandor Clegane’s marred face and coarse but honest tongue.

The parchments were collected, and the ladies were led to the tourney grounds. A section of the stands was reserved for the twenty-eight young women. The women buzzed with excitement to see the men in action for a change. Sansa didn’t think she’d be able to enjoy herself while waiting for the results of the test to be revealed, but the excitement and energy soon enveloped her.

Each warrior rode past the ladies’ seating area, bedecked in full armor, riding similarly armored horses. Sansa saw Margaery clap wildly when her brother rode out. When Sandor rode by, Sansa gasped at the figure he struck, tall and straight-backed on one of the largest destriers Sansa had ever seen. The beast had shiny black hair that glistened in the sun. _Like Sandor himself._ Sansa prayed he would look in her direction so she could flash him a smile, but he didn’t look at anyone and rode by without any flourished waves at the ladies like the other warriors offered.

Her disappointment gave way to fear when, a few riders later, the large man who had made his crude remark during the introduction ceremony came to a full stop in front of the women. His eyes found Sansa immediately, and he pinned her with a glare that was equal parts lustful and threatening. His eyes roved her body, at least what he could see of it, then landed on her face. He licked his lips and smirked before kicking his horse into motion.

The girls on either side of her noticed the exchange and peered at her with confusion and concern. Sansa tried to smile but failed miserably. The Riverlands girl who’d befriended her yesterday, Jeyne, clasped Sansa’s hands, “Why was the Mountain staring at you? You haven’t spoken to him, have you?”

“The _Mountain_? No, I haven’t. I don’t even know him.”

“He’s a Lannister man. Gregor Clegane. They call him ‘the mountain that rides’.”

Sansa knew there were words bookending his name, but only heard that one: _Clegane._

“Is he… is he related to Sandor Clegane?” she tried to ask casually.

The girl on the other side answered. She was from the Westerlands and had flaxen hair, but Sansa forgot her name. “The Hound, yes. They’re brothers. Fearsome warriors, to be sure. They say the Mountain has had two wives, both died under mysterious circumstances.”

Sansa nodded, but could not shake the feeling of having been duped. This _Mountain_ character obviously was not a good man, and what did that say about his brother?

It was an odd feeling to be frightened of this man who minutes ago she thought of as her protector. Had she been too naïve, as Arya always said? It wouldn’t be a surprise…

Yet some part of her wanted to seek Sandor out, to confront him about his brother, as dangerous as that may be.

Then Sandor’s words from their chance meeting in the Gardens came back to her. He cautioned her to be careful around _all_ the men. Was he not merely referring to the likes of Garlan Tyrell? Was that his indirect way of warning her about his own brother? And if he chose to warn her, then didn’t that mean he _had_ been protecting her, that he didn’t have some ulterior motives?

The lists had begun. The girl from the Westerlands explained the rules to Sansa. Eight men would be eliminated today, the eight who were brought down most quickly. Apparently, men would often take several rides past each other before one of them was unhorsed. Any man who was unhorsed today in the first pass would be eliminated, and likely some of those who took two or three passes to go down.

Sansa watched with unfocused eyes, only paying close attention when either of the Clegane brothers was riding. Neither was unhorsed, meaning both would make it to the next round.

**Sandor**

Sandor’s fists clenched and unclenched as he stood in his appointed chambers before the evening meal. He had decided last night he would pay the little bird no mind, not even glancing in her direction, for the rest of the tourney. Hopefully she’d be eliminated, and she’d return to her family in the North.

But his efforts would be in vain. Gregor was already fixated on the girl, brazenly staring at her as he rode out for the joust, even stopping his warhorse so he could drink his fill.

Suddenly Sandor’s goal of killing Gregor faded. If Gregor had been eliminated in the joust, Sandor would not have been too disappointed, because he’d have to leave the Red Keep and the little bird behind him.

Eventually he made his way into the dining hall, relieved to find the little bird present and his brother absent. He inquired with one of the scum knights that was always in Gregor’s presence, and the man told him that Gregor had retired early due to a severe headache.

Sandor took a seat and grinned. Gregor had suffered from headaches frequently over the years. No doubt the tension of holding a lance under his arm all day had taken its toll. Sandor felt the stiffness in his own shoulders creeping its way up into his neck.

Sandor chanced a glance at the little bird only after his meal was finished. As if she could hear his gaze her head turned in his direction. Her eyes widened slightly, then she dipped her head.

He stood and walked to the exit, hoping she would follow. He made his way to the same spot in the Gardens where they first met.

Sure enough, many minutes later, he heard her light footfalls approaching. She stopped when he came into view, standing about twelve paces from him.

“Closer, girl. I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t shout what I have to say.”

She meekly took three small steps in his direction. He rolled his eyes but did not complain.

He was surprised when she spoke first, “Why does your brother leer at me so?”

Sandor sighed, “Because he’s a wolf, and you’re his prey.”

“But… _I_ am a wolf,” her little voice sounded so confused Sandor didn’t know whether to smile or mock.

“It’s a figure of speech, little bird. My brother is a monster. He has no qualms about hurting girls.”

“And you?”

Sandor thought she was asking if Gregor hurt him as well but didn’t know why she’d ask this. Sandor was a grown man and a capable fighter; he could protect himself. Eventually he groaned, “What about me?”

“Are _you_ a monster?”

Sandor snorted, “Aye, but a different kind than him. I kill under orders, and I do it well. But I don’t hurt anyone who isn’t asking for it, and I don’t hurt women for sport.”

“Your brother does?”

“Aye, little bird.”

“Will he… hurt me… _here_?”

“He wants to win the tourney, little bird. He won’t jeopardize a disqualification, but if you’re eliminated you need to leave. Immediately. Fly home to your northlands, pretty bird.”

“If he is eliminated and I am not?”

_Clever bird._

“Then fly away. But he won’t be eliminated.”

She took the few steps to close the gap.

“He is your brother, why are you telling me this?”

Sandor scowled, “He is my brother by blood and nothing more. There is no love between us, nary even a crumb of respect.”

“And you’re sure he’s as bad as you think? Perhaps he only likes to… intimidate people.”

Sandor shook his head, “You see this girl?” he pointed at his ruined cheek, “What am I saying? Of course you see it. Gregor did this to me when I was only a wee lad. He was big and strong already at the age of ten. He held my face in the brazier until half of it melted off.”

Her hands flew to cover the gasp that escaped her pretty little lips. Sandor marveled at how the admission of his deepest secret simply poured out of him after all these years, and to a little slip of a girl, no less.

Despite his better instincts, more came out, “He was knighted shortly after that. Took vows to be brave and just and to protect the _innocent_. Hmpf. Gregor is a menace to the innocent. He is not _just_ – doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. And brave? Aye, I suppose many would call him brave, but it’s easy to be brave when you’re twice as big as any other man. I would know…”

Sansa watched him speak, her eyebrows drawing together in concern with each word.

“Knighthood,” Sandor spit on the ground, “I piss on it.”

The girl reached out tentative fingers and laid them on his shoulder. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was offering him comfort. _The little bird comforting the vicious Hound._ She was a strange little thing indeed.

Then she peered up into his eyes with the most earnest expression he’d ever seen on another person’s face. Her blue eyes sparkled with moonlight and sincerity, “He is no true knight.”

Sandor let out a raspy chuckle, “No little bird, he is no true knight.”

He stared down at her then, wondering if he’d regret telling her what he had. “No one knows about my scars, little bird. If you tell—”

“I won’t,” she spoke with conviction, “I’ll never tell anyone. On my honor as a Stark.”

“Hmpf. Stark? Means nothing to me. I’d rather on your honor as a little bird.”

She nodded, pulling her hand back, “Then on my honor as a little bird, too.”

He jerked his head toward the direction they’d come, “You should go back first while I’m still out here. Scream if Gregor or that Tyrell lad come up to you.”

She nodded, “But Sandor, what if…”

“What if what, girl?”

“You said I should fly away if he is eliminated, or if I am eliminated, but what if… what if neither of us is eliminated? _Ever_.”

Sandor’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. He hadn’t even considered that possibility. But the odds that were against every contender a few days ago were inching toward their favor. Twenty men and twenty women remained. And Sandor didn’t even pretend not to notice that she was prettier and sweeter than all of them women, and that Gregor was nearly unbeatable in all of the upcoming competitions except archery.

_The little bird married to Gregor? Might as well be a death sentence, and not a clean death either._

“If that happens, little bird, you fly away fast. And if I’m still alive, I’ll kill him before I let him hurt you.”

Her lips curved into a pleased grin, “Why?”

Sandor lowered his head, “Go back to your room now. Back to your safe little birdcage.”

Her eyes were disappointed, but she nodded, “I’ll go. But I hope you won’t let him hurt you, either.”

Sandor watched her walk away, not knowing what to make of the strange little bird that seemed to worry about him as much as he worried about her.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Tourney Day 3_ **

**Sandor**

Archery was not Sandor’s strong suit, but only four men would be eliminated today, leaving sixteen to duel on the morrow.

Tyrell was the standout of the day, hitting the bull’s eye over and over again, seemingly with little effort or concentration.

Sandor’s first two shots were wide, but he compensated well enough, managing to secure himself one of the sixteen places, even if by a margin he wasn’t proud of.

To his surprise, the men would spend the next few hours watching the women perform their special talents for the judges, just as the women were allowed to observe the jousts yesterday.

The Great Hall was reserved for the occasion. Sandor sat as far from Gregor as he could and hated that his brother would once again be in the little bird’s presence. There were guards, as always, but the idea of Gregor’s eyes on the little bird was more than Sandor could bear.

Each woman would perform in some way. The front of the hall was turned into something of a stage. The men chatted and japed while waiting for the performances to begin.

The Tyrell bitch was first of twenty. She played the lute. Though everyone clapped at the conclusion of her song, Sandor had found it rather dull. Then again, music had never appealed to him very much.

Back to back, two Dornish girls performed dances that mimicked the footwork of a fighter, with gilded swords as props. Some of the men jeered at the women’s exotic and fluid movements. In a dimly lit brothel Sandor might appreciate the artform, but he was not impressed by it in this context, and the stern-faced judges seemed to share his appraisal.

A number of acts followed, largely blurring together. Singing, harp-playing, another lute player. One girl chose a comely man from the audience and drew an impressively realistic sketch of his face with nothing but a bit of charcoal.

The last to take the stage was Sansa. She wore a white dress with a wide gray ribbon around the waist. Her hair was down but for two thin braids that entwined like a crown.

Sandor sat forward before remembering himself. He leaned back and crossed his arms as if bored by the entire affair, but he observed her closely from beneath his brow.

Sansa herself was a work of art. She could do nothing but stand there for five minutes and she’d win, if he had any say in the matter. But after taking a few deep breaths her mouth opened and the most enchanting sound Sandor had ever heard rose up out of her chest. Her voice started out soft, seemingly by design, but became more powerful as the song went on. Something about a girl named Jenny living in an old castle and dancing with the ghosts of kings and lovers. Her voice reached a crescendo near the end of the song, before gently fading back into the hauntingly soft tone at which the song began.

If someone ever told Sandor he’d be among the men awed into speechlessness by the sound of a woman’s voice, he’d have accused them of madness.

It was only after Sansa offered the crowd a smile and a curtsy that the men rose to their feet eagerly, Sandor among them, for a standing ovation.

Her eyes passed over the audience but when they met Sandor’s something in her smile transformed. It became a thing that wasn’t meant for show but as a genuine expression of fondness. The smile on her lips faded slightly while the smile in her eyes brightened. It was fleeting, nowhere near long enough for anyone else to notice, but _he_ did. Which meant _Gregor_ did.

Sandor lowered his eyes and took his seat, affixing an ambivalent expression on his face.

It was not a surprise that Sansa was among the women to move forward. Sandor had to suppress a smirk when the Tyrell bitch was eliminated, along with one of the Dornish girls and two girls from the Vale.

**_Tourney Day 4_ **

**Sandor**

For the second day in a row, Sandor was surprised that the men were included as spectators in the maidens’ competition. Today they would compete on the basis of pageantry – a nicer word for beauty.

Once again, the hypocrisy of the Faith was on full display. Sixteen young women would strut out on the stage in their finery to be gaped at by not just the judges but also sixteen red-blooded men, each hoping he would be the one to claim one of these maidens as his bride.

Several of the girls made the mistake of dressing too provocatively, with low necklines or elaborate cut-outs revealing swathes of skin. They flashed saccharine smiles at the men while they spun themselves around so their dresses (and bodies) could be seen from all angles. Apparently, they designed their own dresses, as evidenced by the fact that they droned on about details that held no interest for Sandor. The incorporation of the latest fashion trends from Essos. The types of expensive fabrics and threads used. The incorporation of the colors of their house.

Sansa was the twelfth woman to take the stage, and the first to garner Sandor’s full attention. The preceding women were pretty, no doubt, but Sandor had stopped caring about pretty faces years ago, as they never cared one whit about his ugly mug.

Sansa’s dress was more conservative but no less appealing. It showed her shapely figure without revealing too much of her alabaster skin.

While the other girls chose fine silks, Sansa’s seemed to be some type of smooth wool. The other girls chose bright colors – pinks and purples and reds – while Sansa’s was a dove grey with a light blue underlayment. The bodice was intricately embroidered with what appeared to be leaves, in a color that matched Sansa’s light auburn hair, which was presently twisted into several elaborate braids that converged into a bun at the back of her head.

The bell sleeves of the dress extended almost to the floor. The bottom hem of the dress was also embroidered with what looked like running dogs – no, _wolves_.

When asked to describe the dress, Sansa smiled at the judges, “The fabric is a special type of wool derived from sheep native to the North. It is brushed and washed seven times to create a texture that is as soft as rabbit fur and as smooth as velvet, and also lighter than most other wools. The embroidery and colors combine to represent Houses Stark and Tully – the latter being my mother’s house. Their colors are blue and red. Stark colors are white and gray. The pattern on the bodice you may recognize as the leaves of a weirwood tree, which remain a vivid shade of red even in the coldest months of winter. Though I do not personally keep the Old Gods, we have a weirdwood tree in the Godswood at Winterfell. My father’s house dates back to the First Men – eight thousand years. Worship of the Old Gods is a defining facet of the history of my house, and I respect the religion of my forefathers even if I choose to keep the Faith of the Seven myself…”

“The motif at the bottom hem is running direwolves. There are six. These renderings are accurate of the six direwolves of House Stark: one for myself and each of my siblings, plus my cousin. Lady is my wolf, she is featured prominently on the front of the dress. Nymeria, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggy Dog, and Ghost are the others.”

“You have pet… _wolves_?” one of the older judges asked.

Sansa’s cheeks reddened, “Yes, Septon. Direwolves, to be precise. They are much larger than typical wolves and were believed to be extinct, at least south of the Wall, until my father found this litter in the forest, about five years ago. The Direwolf is also the sigil of House Stark.”

A female judge spoke next, “Did you construct and embroider the dress yourself?”

“Embroidered, yes, Septa. I also designed it myself. My mother helped construct it. That part is easier with two sets of hands, and my mother and I enjoy working together. While I embroidered this particular dress, my mother was working on new tunics for my younger brothers, and a wool jerkin for our Master-at-Arms.”

Twenty-seven years’ worth of cynicism made Sandor want to mock the perfect little Stark family, with their wolves and their castle and their Master-at-Arms. But in that moment, all he could do was admire Sansa for her talent and beauty. No doubt she spent as many hours with her dress as Sandor spent in the training yard over the past several months. And while Sandor had never considered the craftsmanship that went into anything but an instrument of death, even he could appreciate that the dress was flawless from shoulder to hem.

He couldn’t even say what color the remaining four maidens wore. He was busy trying to make sense of these odd urges and fantasies acting out in his mind’s eye. An image of himself draping a cloak of his own humble house’s colors over Sansa’s shoulders. An image of gingerly untying all the many laces of her dress and underclothes before laying her down in bed. An image of sharpening his sword by the firelight while she, his wife, embroidered a dress for herself or a fine jerkin for her husband.

An image of red-haired children, half wolf and half dog, being sung to sleep by their mother’s mesmerizing voice.

But because his brain was not accustomed to harboring feelings of hopefulness for too long, less pleasant visions invaded his senses. A vision of the Clegane cloak being draped over her shoulders by Gregor instead of him. An image of Sansa Stark, broken and lifeless, on the floor of her husband’s chambers, her light and voice permanently extinguished.

He stomped out of the room with the other men, rage propelling each step. Killing Gregor was no longer his sole objective. He would win the tourney, whomever he had to beat to do so. He’d take Sansa Stark as his bride, kill Gregor, and spend the rest of his days protecting the fairest maiden in all the realm.

**Sansa**

Sandor Clegane fought with the ferocity of a shadow cat in the duel, and with just as much stealth. The Dornishman he opposed twirled his lance so quickly it was impossible to follow, but Sandor splintered it to kindling with one swing of his longsword. He didn’t stop swinging until the man was on his back, his cries of “yield” sounding so desperate that Sansa feared for the man’s life.

Sandor sheathed his sword and returned to where the other contenders were sitting, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead.

None of the other duels were over so quickly, and Sansa was inexplicably proud that her savior, her protector, her _friend_ was by far the fiercest fighter here.

Gregor was less fleet-of-foot than his younger brother, but no less powerful. In fact, he was bigger and stronger. He shattered the shield of his opponent, a young knight from the Stormlands. The foolish man never yielded, and his body was eventually carried off. Sansa didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but at minimum he was gravely injured.

Eight of sixteen men would advance, including Sandor, Gregor, and Garlan Tyrell. The other five included three Northmen, which made Sansa proud. Only one man from the Stormlands and one from the Vale remained. The Riverlands and Dorne had been officially eliminated.

Eight ladies were announced, the winners of this morning’s pageant. Sansa and Jeyne were among them. The other six were girls she knew by face and name but had never spoken to for more than a brief exchange of pleasantries. There were two from the Westerlands, two from the Reach, one from the Vale, and one from the Stormlands. Only Dorne had been eliminated.

Sansa decided that, if she was eliminated, she would warn the remaining maidens about Gregor. It would destroy her to someday learn that one of these sweet, talented, beautiful young ladies had met the same fate as Gregor’s (rumored) wives.

Sansa snuck off to the gardens only after taking a circuitous route, lest Garlan or Gregor think to follow her. She waited a long time for Sandor to arrive, and he looked troubled when he did.

He pulled her roughly further down the garden path, and when he turned to face her his eyes were unfocused, darting all around.

“We can’t stay long, little bird. If Gregor should think to look for me, I want to be nowhere near you.”

“I understand. Did you have something to tell me, or did you just wish to see me?”

He blinked at her. He seemed to always be confused by things she said that weren’t confusing at all.

Finally he proceeded, “I always want to see you, but aye, I’ve something to tell you. I won’t promise or vow it, girl, because those are just empty words. What I tell you now is a _fact_. I’m going to win this tourney, and so are you. They’d be mad not to choose you… If I can kill Gregor in the process I will, but if I can’t, I will seek him out after our wedding. I’ll kill him and bring you his head as a wedding gift, if it would please you… I didn’t tell you this, but he spoke to me a few nights ago. He had seen me watching you. He threatened to do horrid things to you, and once Gregor sets his mind on something, he doesn’t stop… I don’t say this to frighten you, but to assure you that I’m more than sufficiently motivated to win. As for afterwards, if you never wish to look upon my ugly face, or kiss my mangled lips, or share my bed – none of that matters. I’m going to protect you, little bird. Killing my brother is reward enough but killing him knowing it keeps you safe will make it that much sweeter.”

Sansa stared at him even though tears pricked her eyes. He was nothing like the man she imagined would claim her heart, in outward appearance or even temperament. But his own heart was pure, his words were honest, and in a few short days he cared about her enough to make protecting her his personal mission. She had given him nothing to earn his loyalty and affection. No favors, no coy smiles, no tender hugs, no kisses…

_Kisses. He said he’ll never make me kiss him. His mangled lips. He thinks himself unworthy to be kissed, touched, or even looked upon._

Before she could talk herself out of it, Sansa rose to her toes and planted a kiss on the scarred side of his mouth. His body went rigid, but she did not pull away for long seconds, eventually only doing so lest they be found by someone.

Back on her heels she smiled at him, “It would be an honor to kiss you, Sandor Clegane, and to wake in our marriage bed every morning to look upon your face. But please don’t tell the Septas I said that, or I’ll have disqualified myself. And please win, not just because I don’t want Gregor, but because I _want you._ I don’t want to win if you don’t. And I _really_ want to win,” she smiled at herself then, at how silly she sounded talking about winning the competition now that she knew her life was in danger due to Gregor, if Sandor was to be believed. And she did believe him. She didn’t know why, but she did, without doubt or question. Perhaps the scars on his face were proof enough of Gregor’s nature.

Sandor chuckled, “You’re cuckoo, little bird. I think you’ve bumped your head, or perhaps come down with a fever. But we’ll sort all that out later. For now, we each have our jobs.”

She nodded, “Tomorrow is another joust?”

“Aye. Eight down to four, with archery in the event of a tie. Then four to two the next day in a duel.”

“After you win tomorrow, come find me. I’ll have something for you to carry in the duel, if you’ll accept it.”

Sandor smiled, “Aye, little bird. If you touch it, I’ll take it, and hope it smells like your sweetness. You know you smell like honeysuckle and lemons?”

Sansa’s cheeked burned. It was a strange compliment, yet it made her knees weak. Sandor had an odd habit of doing that. He called her a pretty little bird. “Little bird” sounded like it could be an insult, but all she heard was “pretty”. Tonight he said he “always wants to see her”, but he said it as an afterthought. The knight in Sansa’s juvenile fantasies (which she had until just a few days ago), would have said, _“My lady, I wish to look upon you every day for the rest of my life, because every day I discover a new facet of your beauty.”_ For some reason, she preferred Sandor’s version. Perhaps his simple delivery proved his sincerity. He wasn’t trying to woo her, just stating a fact.

She tried for her best coy smile, “Do I? Well then I shall keep it against my heart, so it smells like me, and perhaps you’ll keep it in the same place when you wear it.”

Sandor groaned and shook his head in what Sansa construed as disbelief, “Fly back now, my pretty little cuckoo bird.”


	6. Chapter 6

**_Tourney Day 5_ **

**Sansa**

Sansa was trembling as she and the other ladies walked into the solar where today’s event would take place. It was another talent exhibition, and half of the eight maidens would be eliminated. She had already sung twice, once with a harp, once without. She needed to do something different. Her best skill beyond singing was embroidery. Knowing that four of the remaining eight competitors had impressed the judges with their drawings, Sansa thought embroidery would be her best choice. It would demonstrate her creativity, attention to detail, and fine motor skills, much like sketching did for the other girls. If it also gave her the opportunity to make a favor for Sandor, well that was just a coincidence.

Her choice was vindicated when she saw that another girl would use a loom to weave a brightly colored tapestry of her house sigil.

She was surprised to find that Jeyne was going to whittle a small piece of wood. Sansa thought it a rather masculine talent, but perhaps that would leave an impression on the judges.

One other girl would also embroider, and Sansa knew her creation must be better than hers, at minimum, to move forward.

A small part of her wondered if it wouldn’t be so bad to be eliminated. She could go home with her head held high, having been among eight finalists. She’d never have to see Gregor Clegane or Garlan Tyrell again. Her father would find her a nice young man from among his loyal vassals for her to wed.

But to say that appealed to her would be a lie. How could so much change in a few short days that she was _excited_ about the prospect of the scarred, beastly Sandor Clegane taking her as his bride? Would Arya call this bravery or naivety? _Perhaps both._ All Sansa knew – and perhaps ‘knew’ was the wrong word – all she _felt_ was that Sandor would always protect her and be true to her. He’d never take a mistress as many lords did. He’d not attempt to lord over her like she was another of his servants. And she suspected – oh yes, she was truly ignorant in this matter – but she suspected he would be a tender lover. He would not force himself on her, he admitted so himself, which meant he would go at a pace she was comfortable with. Didn’t it?

Oh if only her friend from Winterfell, Jeyne Poole, was here to help her piece together this puzzle of a man. Sansa could not risk talking to the other girls here about such topics; they might report her back to the judges as a harlot.

She knew she was at risk of assuming too much about a man whom she knew little about. Taking a moment to herself, she closed her eyes and pondered everything she knew about Sandor…

He was foul-mouthed, but he had lived a soldier’s life. Sansa wasn’t so naïve as to not know that even the guards and soldiers of Winterfell spoke crudely about many things: drinking, fighting, _women._ Yet they weren’t bad men, and they were very loyal to the Stark family.

Sometimes, not always, Sandor’s eyes were filled with lust. But wasn’t that the way between women and men? She’d seen her father gaze longingly at her mother more than once over the years, and her father was the most honorable man she knew. Robb, Theon, and Jon let their eyes follow some wenches a bit too long, too, and Sansa knew none of them would ever impose their will on a woman.

Sandor was violent, choosing to kill for a living. But what better profession could a man of his stature hope to find? Men who risked their lives for their lords were paid much better than those who worked in a forge or a kitchen or a field. Besides, had Sansa’s own father not killed men when he fought alongside King Robert to overthrow the Targaryens? Did Robb not train daily with a sword so that he, too, might kill other men to defend his home or king? Was Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms, not a fierce fighter in his day? And yet he was one of the most respected and beloved retainers of the Stark family.

Sandor was perhaps a bit presumptuous, telling her that he would win the tourney and marry her. He didn’t ask if it was what she wanted. But her mere entry into this tourney meant she was willing to marry any man that was victorious. Besides, his reason for wanting to marry her was to keep her safe from Gregor, and probably also the likes of Ser Garlan. Ser Garlan had been more presumptuous – kissing Sansa against her will – than Sandor ever was. In fact, she kissed Sandor and he did not even take advantage of the intimate moment to touch her in an improper way. Surely that said much about his character!

“Lady Sansa, are you well?”

Sansa opened her eyes to see the kindly old Septon. She smiled, “Yes, Septon. I was just considering what I will create today and planning my approach.”

She felt only a little guilty for lying to the man. The Gods would understand her need to contemplate the man she might marry.

The man smiled, “Measure twice, cut once.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. The man chuckled, “It is a common saying among builders. If you measure twice, you don’t risk a wasted cut of wood. Meaning planning and taking our time at the beginning saves us from mistakes later on.”

Sansa smiled, “Oh, that is very wise, indeed. Thank you for explaining it to me, Septon. Our carpenter at Winterfell would be quite impressed if I went home and used that phrase with him!”

The Septon chuckled again, “Good luck with your work today, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa pulled out a swath of fine linen and began planning. The girls would have all morning and even three hours after lunch to work on their exhibition. Their process would be observed, but ultimately the finished creation is what would win them a place in the final four.

Sansa smiled and set to work, knowing exactly what she would make.

**Sandor**

The joust was fierce today. As happened with all tourneys, the longer you stayed in, the harder it became. The eight remaining men were all worthy of being here, and all had excelled in the previous joust. Sandor knew he had to dominate in the lists or else he was at risk of an archery competition to break the tie. He could best _perhaps_ two of these men in archery, and one of those was Gregor, who was unlikely to do poorly in the lists.

His name was called first to ride against one of the Northmen. The fellow was shorter than Sandor by a head, which could be an advantage in the joust if the man knew what he was doing and knew that his lower center of gravity was his greatest advantage.

Sandor’s best strategy was the simplest one: hit him so hard that sheer brute force overpowered him. Sandor’s mount was larger; Sandor was stronger.

Unfortunately, that also meant Sandor was a bigger target.

At this point in the competition, no one underestimated their opponent. The first pass, neither man tried to land a meaningful blow. The second pass, each struck the other, but not with enough force for either to be unseated. It was on the third pass that Sandor took advantage of his reach and surprised the man with an early jab. With the lance extended Sandor had less leverage for a powerful strike, but a fraction of his strength was still enough. The lance landed at the man’s side, and he slid but did not fall.

Knowing the man would be expecting the same strategy for the next pass, Sandor changed his approach. He watched the man’s lance while making it look like he was preparing another early strike. The man took the bait and extended his lance early. Sandor deflected it with his own weapon then aimed for the man’s chest. Except the tip of the lance didn’t land straight-on. It ended up sliding up the man’s armor and slipping in the space between his breast plate and helm. A small target, except when approached from below instead of above or head-on.

Sandor felt the squishy resistance of flesh meeting blade. He pulled back his lance immediately, but it didn’t matter – the man fell off his horse and bled out within seconds.

This marked only the third death in the competition. The first was a man during the opening melee, not in Sandor’s group but one of the others. The second was a man who died hours after dueling with Gregor.

_Two men dead at the hands of a Clegane._

Death was an acceptable risk during any tourney, including the Tourney of the Seven, but Sandor worried that he and his brother would be disqualified. Would the Faith decide to break their own rules and deem that no Clegane man was worthy of being named Warrior – and later the Father? It’s not like anyone would speak up on behalf of the Hound and the Mountain. The Septons could institute this new rule and no one would complain, except perhaps the other contenders, knowing they could just as easily be disqualified for the same unintentional action. _Then again, to eliminate the two best fighters from the tourney, they’ll take their chances._

If he was disqualified, then his chance with the little bird were over. This Tourney was one of the rare cases when a highborn lass – _and let’s face it, she’s as highborn as they come_ – could marry a lowborn man without bringing shame upon her house. Moreover, they didn’t even live in the same bloody kingdom. He was near Lannisport, about a moon’s ride from Winterfell.

_I’m loyal to Tywin Lannister but have never sworn vows to him. I could travel to Winterfell, look for work as a soldier or guard. At least then I’d be able to see the little bird._

_Until they marry her to some handsome lordling and she leaves to live at his castle._

Sandor rubbed his forehead as he sat with the other men, waiting for the lists to be cleared of the corpse and reset for the next riders. Every second that passed felt like an indication that he would not be disqualified. If only each second wasn’t lasting an eternity.

He snorted to himself, earning the glares of men all around him, but he paid them no heed. He was a bloody fool, falling for Sansa Stark, barely a woman, because of her pretty blue eyes and her sweet voice and the way she looked at him and touched him like he wasn’t a monster. Was she daft? He didn’t think so. That meant her behavior was genuine. There was something about him – _him!_ – that appealed to her. If she wasn’t a maiden, he’d suspect it was his cock. Not that she’d seen it, but it was only logical to assume it was of a proportion to the rest of his body. It certainly couldn’t be his appearance or his words, nor his name. So then what was it? What was desirable about Sandor Clegane, the bloody Hound?

The answer washed over him with a sobering realization, like taking a dip in a cold river. She wanted his sword, his protection. Garlan Tyrell and Gregor had singled her out for their unwanted attention. Sandor saved her once, no doubt she knew he’d do it again. Hells, he’d confessed it was all he cared about anymore. Was she just pretending to care about him to keep him interested so she’d continue to enjoy his protection?

 _Of course she’s pretending. Why else would someone like_ her _be kind to someone like_ me?

He cursed out loud, but all the other men were focused on watching the joust underway. He stomped off in search of wine, even though he knew it was a bad idea.

**Sansa**

Sansa took her indirect route to the gardens, anxious to find Sandor there. He hadn’t been at supper, and she feared he was injured. She heard that he had killed a man today during the joust and didn’t know whether that would be weighing on his conscience. Surely even hardened warriors didn’t enjoy killing, particularly a man who they held no personal grudge against.

She found him slumped against a tree, an empty wineskin at his feet. She kneeled down and took his hand which was perched on his bent knee, “Sandor, are you hurt?”

He snorted, “Don’t worry, little bird, your _protector_ is whole and healthy.”

His words sounded angry, but she knew it couldn’t be directed at her. She had several siblings and knew that anger was often misdirected at those closest to us.

“I heard you… that one of your opponents died today. I’m sorry, Sandor. Do you… do you wish to talk about it?”

“Talk? What the fuck is there to talk about. He’s dead, I’m alive.”

“Oh. But—”

“But what, girl? You think I shed a tear every time a man dies by my blade? If I did, I’d have run out of tears long ago.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But you’re out here, drunk, and you seem upset.”

“Not upset, and unlike you, I’m an adult, I can drink when I wish and as much as I wish.”

“What—what do you mean I’m not an adult? And of course you can drink, only you have the duel tomorrow!”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. Your dog will fight well tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll duel Gregor. Perhaps I’ll kill him, then I’ll lay down my sword and let one of the others win in the final match. You can have your pretty flower lad, or that Northman. Would you like that, little bird?”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t that be best for you, hmm? Get rid of both the Mountain and the Hound, spend the rest of your days with the handsome flower knight, or the noble Northman?”

“How… I don’t understand, Sandor. I told you I want you to win.”

“Aye. You want me to win if it means Gregor doesn’t win. You think I believe you’d want me to win if he wasn’t competing?”

“Sandor, I don’t understand…”

“You don’t understand, so you keep saying. Of course you don’t. You’re a pretty, spoiled, little princess. You see nothing wrong with batting your eyes, saying your sweet words, giving away your kisses. It buys you some man’s loyalty so you can use him for a purpose. What happens when the purpose is fulfilled, hmm? Do your lips go dry? Do your smiles become scowls?”

Sansa felt tears spilling down her cheeks. She didn’t want Sandor to see how weak she was, but the words he was saying were so _hateful_. It sounded like he was accusing her of misusing him, but how could he think that?

Around childlike sniffles she asked him just that, “What have I done to make you doubt my intentions?”

He chuckled, “You’ve done nothing, little bird. You’ve played your part well. You could be a bloody mummer.”

“Then why do you doubt me!? Why do you accuse me of taking advantage of you? Of… of… of _seducing_ you to do my bidding? I didn’t ask you to protect me, you just did it! I didn’t tell you to kill your brother, it sounds as if you’d like to do it regardless of whether he is a threat to me. Why, Sandor? Why do you say these hateful words?!”

His eyes softened for a fleeting moment before returning to cold, hard slate.

“These words are not hateful, they’re honest. And you ask why I doubt you? Why wouldn’t I doubt you? You, as beautiful and sweet and smart and lovely as anyone I’ve ever met, not to mention you’re a bloody princess. And me, an angry dog with a fucked-up face, only good at killing and drinking.”

She shook her head, anger now replacing her sadness and fear. She rose to her full height and paced back and forth, trying to put order to the thoughts jumbled in her mind. 

“Perhaps you’re good at killing, but I don’t think you’re very good at drinking if _this_ is how you act. I haven’t been mean or even rude to you, and yet you speak to me so cruelly. You sit there trying to convince me that my feelings are untrue, or worse yet, that they’re an _act!_ Well let me tell you something, Sandor Clegane, I do believe you are an honest man, but being honest isn’t the same thing as being right. You say what you think, I’ll give you that, but what you think is _wrong._ You’re not some ugly dog, some mindless monster. You have been kind to me, in your own way. You have protected me. You have offered me well-meaning advice. You have not tried to take advantage of me even though you easily could, out here in the Gardens, as Ser Garlan proved…

And you’re all these things – honest, kind, protective, honorable – after going through what I’m sure was a horrible trauma in your childhood. I see the way the other girls look at you, like they’re afraid of you. I understand your scars can be alarming, but it gives them no right to look at you like a monster! All men wear scars. Scars on their hands, their limbs, their faces. My little sister has more scars than I can count, and she’s never been anywhere near a battlefield! It’s not your fault your scars are more severe, and so readily visible on your face. I want to curse at those girls and tell them all that _handsome_ _Ser_ Garlan tried to force himself upon me while _unhandsome, un-Ser_ Clegane protected me…”

She took a deep breath after a minute of nonstop talking, “So as a matter of fact, yes, there are reasons I would want to marry you, even if you choose not to see them. And as a matter of fact, no, I have not been using you. Certainly not intentionally, and certainly not by deceiving you in any way. And the fact that you would even think that is deeply disappointing...

You need not protect me anymore. You are not your brother, nor are you responsible for his actions. Tomorrow I will get myself eliminated. I don’t need the gold, I don’t need the castle, and I don’t need the husband. I’ll go home and let my father make a match for me. Win for yourself if you wish. Kill your brother for revenge, if you wish. Don’t do either for me. I was childish to think being crowned the Maiden would make me happy.”

She reached into her bodice and pulled out the handkerchief she made for him today, the one that won her a finalist spot. Now she wished it hadn’t.

She ignored the way Sandor was staring at her again, like she was a complete mystery to him. She’d spoken quite clearly, and nothing she said was ambiguous. Perhaps he wasn’t as smart as she thought. Perhaps he was a fool, only good for killing.

She didn’t really believe that, but she tried to, as she threw the handkerchief at him, wishing it was of a heavier fabric as it fluttered innocuously down to his lap, his eyes following as if it was happening very slowly.

“Good luck, Sandor Clegane.”

She turned and headed back to the maidenvault, but in her haste and distraction she walked right into a wall that was in the middle of the courtyard for some reason. When she looked up, the wall was smiling down at her.

**Sandor**

Sandor stared at the spot where Sansa disappeared from view for long minutes. Each passing second was spent wishing she would turn around and come back. He should have gone after her, or at least called after her, but he was suddenly paralyzed from his tongue down to his feet.

How could he have been so wrong? Moreover, why did he care? So what if he suspected she was manipulating him? If he won the tourney, he’d be forced to marry one of these four girls; why not marry the prettiest one who was at least capable of _pretending_ to fancy him?

That should have been his thought process today, but it wasn’t. He drank himself into a stupor, and with each sip of wine he spiraled deeper into the conviction that Sansa Stark was nothing as she appeared. That she was just another Margaery Tyrell, or any other of the thousands of women who used their feminine appeal to wrap men around their fingers.

And when he spewed those accusations at her, he meant every word. Worse, he wielded each word like a dagger, _wanting_ to draw blood.

And that he did, but it came out in the form of tears that glistened in the moonlight on cheeks as white as snow. And soon after that, in the form of words spoken so hastily, and with so much passion they were obviously unrehearsed. The little bird found her talons, and she wielded them masterfully, hurling one truth after another at Sandor until his flimsy accusation was ripped to shreds.

Then, she delivered the death blow: _Tomorrow I will get myself eliminated… Win for yourself if you wish. Kill your brother for revenge, if you wish. Don’t do either for me._

Sandor stood up only to bend over and expel four skins’ worth of wine on the grass around him.

_Last night she wanted to win, but only if I would win. Tonight she is ready to drop out and doesn’t care whether I win._

Sandor knew he fucked it up. He still didn’t understand why she cared about him, but it was obvious that she did, and who was he to argue?

He couldn’t let her drop out or do something to have herself eliminated. He had to speak to her before tomorrow’s competition.

By now she’d already be in the maidenvault, which was heavily guarded. He’d have to seek her out at breakfast tomorrow, consequences be damned. He’d never even been in the dining hall in the morning, as he didn’t like fighting or riding with a full belly and was content with the bit of cheese and fruit that was delivered daily to each competitor’s room.

It was only after he arrived at his quarters and was about to undress that he remembered the bit of fabric clutched in his hand since the little bird threw it at him.

He laid it out on the small table in his room, beside the lantern. He literally gasped when he realized what it was.

The square of fine, soft linen contained numerous tiny stitched embellishments so vivid and detailed he could hardly affix his eyes on any one.

In the middle sat a black dog looking up at a tree branch where a little red bird was perched.

The border of the handkerchief was twisted vines in silver and green.

At each corner was an icon, smaller than the bird and dog, but no less detailed. One was the seven-pointed star of the Faith. Another was a snowflake, glittering in silver, white, and blue thread. There was a shield that bore uncanny resemblance to the one Sandor used in the melee and duel. In the fourth corner was the letter “S”. Clever little bird; the judges would think it stood for Stark or Sansa, but he knew it stood for Sandor.

He laid on the mattress, bringing the fabric to his nose and inhaling deeply. He fell asleep surrounded by the smell of honeysuckle and lemon.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Tourney Day 6** _

**Sansa**

Sansa paced her room, wringing her hands to the point of pain. She was terrified of leaving this room and having to look into the eyes of the man who had accosted her last night outside the Gardens.

She had been so frightened she couldn’t even scream; she only gaped up in horror at the man towering over her, his lips twisted into a snarl.

_“Why are you crying pretty lady?”_

She opened her mouth, but her tongue was numb and her throat dry. He laughed at her, _“Who was in the Gardens with you? It was my brother, wasn’t it? Did he grab you, girl? Did he tell you all the dirty things he wants to do to you?”_

He had laughed then, before raising his fleshy paw to stroke her cheek, _“Have no fear, pretty lady, I’ll kill him for you. If not tomorrow, then the next day. And the day after that, I’ll still have his blood on my hands when I bed you. Would you like that?”_

Fresh tears poured down her cheeks and her throat finally decided to work, but only to cry out a sob.

Gregor had laughed again at that, _“I know why you’re sad, girl. You’re worried you won’t win, aren’t you? Don’t worry – even if you don’t, I’ll still find you. After I bed one of your fellow_ maidens _I’ll come find you. You won’t have gotten very far, will you? I’ll take your precious_ virtue _with another girl’s maiden’s blood still on my cock, and my brother’s blood still on my hands. You have my promise.”_

He threw his head back and laughed again and Sansa took the opportunity to dart back to the maidenvault. Ser Gregor did not give chase, nor did he speak another word. With each step a different, raspier voice followed her, repeating the same warning: _fly away, little bird._

She sat on her bed now, trembling with fear that couldn’t be stifled by the rising sun. His threat was not to be taken lightly, and yet she wondered if he’d even meant to threaten her, or if his mind was so deranged that he actually thought she _wanted_ him to take her, either as his bride in their marriage bed or as an unwed maiden on her way home from the tourney.

She needed to make a plan. Sandor’s protection was no longer an option, she’d severed that tie last night in no uncertain terms. She needed to find another source of protection, but she had no one else here to rely on. She considered her options…

If she reported Gregor, it would _at best_ get him disqualified, but that would only make him angrier, and free him from the tourney, free him to pursue her. _Could his threats be enough to have him arrested?_ She didn’t think so. He hadn’t hurt her physically, after all; had barely even touched her. And it would be her word against his. They might assume she was making the accusation only in hopes of disqualifying a potential husband she found unfavorable. _No; telling anyone about Gregor will not work and may very well put me in more danger._

Her best bet was to leave the capital immediately, but that would mean withdrawing or purposefully performing poorly enough to lose. She could do either of those things, easily, but she’d still be unguarded. It would take the better part of a moon for her father to send an escort of guards to retrieve her from the capital if she sent him a raven today to request it. Would they even let her send a raven? Would they ask why she was so anxious to leave?

Who else could she turn to then, that could protect her while she waited in the capital for her father’s men to arrive?

She paced some more, then the answer struck her like an arrow. _Of course! King Robert!_

King Robert was a close friend of her father’s many years ago. They’d grown apart over the years, but Lord Stark was still a loyal Warden who’d never so much as spoken a treasonous word about the king.

_Yes, I’ll request an audience with the king. I won’t give Ser Gregor’s name, but I’ll ask to be assigned some guards. Or better yet, I’ll ask for a guard escort back to Winterfell immediately, with promise that my father will more than cover the expense._

It had to work, because there was no other option.

_Other than Sandor killing his brother._

She could not put her faith in that, as much as she wanted to. Ser Gregor was taller and stronger than Sandor, and already committed to killing his younger brother.

That thought stilled her frantic pacing. Today’s duel was not meant to be one to the death, but that was clearly Gregor’s intent. Did Sandor know? If Sandor and Gregor faced off today, would Sandor be caught unawares? Would he be less competent after a night of drinking? Would he know how much Gregor was motivated to win so that he could claim her?

Damn her compassion, but she couldn’t leave until she had a chance to warn Sandor. She also needed to warn the other ladies about Ser Gregor, though perhaps his reputation was already warning enough.

The women would have their competition this morning (though none knew what the category would be), and after lunch they would watch the duels. The duels would eliminate two of the remaining four men. Then the winning Maiden would be announced, so the two men would fight on the morrow knowing _who_ they were fighting for. She couldn’t withdraw from the competition or else she wouldn’t be brought to the fighting pits and thus would have no chance to warn Sandor. She had to attend her final competition, do poorly enough to be eliminated, then warn Sandor. After the duels she would seek the king and hope her request was granted.

She let out a mirthless chuckle. She felt like a court’s fool, juggling four balls at once when she was barely qualified to toss and catch one at a time.

…

Sansa sat across from the eldest Septon in a small room. There would be no performance today, no pageantry, no quiz. The kindly Septon sat her down and spoke to her for a few minutes, asking about her experience thus far in the tourney. She answered politely but not over-enthusiastically. The man listened attentively, nodding along and occasionally commenting.

Then, he smiled, “Lady Sansa. Today the maidens are being judged for their piety. Their commitment to the Faith of the Seven, to honoring the Gods even when faced with adversity.”

Sansa nodded, though she wasn’t sure where this was leading.

“To that end, child of the Gods, I ask you to confess.”

“Confess?”

“Yes, dear child. Confess a transgression.”

Sansa considered the man’s words. The _right_ approach would be to confess something trivial. The use of unholy language. Or perhaps an argument with her siblings. Or a time she defied her parents.

But she wasn’t here to take the _right_ approach. She’d need to confess something much more deplorable. Something that would be so egregious for a maiden to commit that the decision to eliminate her would be indisputable. 

She considered lying, but she was never very good at lying, as Arya pointed out to her repeatedly over the years. She must be convincing. But she’d done so few _bad deeds_ in her life that she could confess to.

_Until recently…_

She met the Septon’s eyes; she would confess a true transgression. It would eliminate her, but also unburden her soul. Perhaps she’d earn a bit of the Gods’ mercy; she’d certainly need it in the next few days…

“I have coveted a man, who is – obviously – neither my husband nor my betrothed.”

“Coveted in what way?”

“I longed for him to claim me as his wife. You see, he is one of the warriors…”

“So there is a man among the tourney contenders that you hope will win… because you fancy him more than the others?”

She nodded, “The tourney is meant to be won by the man who best personifies the Warrior and the Smith, not by the man who is most appealing to me.”

The Septon nodded, “In what way does this man appeal to you?”

She felt tears prick her eyes in thinking about all that Sandor had meant to her, and how all those feelings had been shattered last night.

“He is honorable, even if he doesn’t claim to be. He is always honest with me, even when he isn’t honest with himself. He has protected me, given me counsel.”

“It sounds as if you’ve had many interactions with this man. Has something improper transpired?”

Sansa nodded, “I have met with him without a chaperone. I have told him that I want him to win, that I want to be his wife. I even told him that I… that I wouldn’t mind sharing a marriage bed with him. You see, he thinks himself undesirable, and I wanted to assure him that he is wrong, and thus I acted improperly… in a way not befitting the Maiden.”

“Have you known this man in a… physical way?”

She nodded again, “I kissed him, also to prove that he is desirable, at least to me. It was chaste, but I did it of my own free will. He never forced me to do it, or even hinted that he wanted me to. In fact, he protected me once from one of the other contenders, who used trickery to get me alone with him so he could kiss me. I think he was trying to dishonor me, so he might help lessen the competition for one of the other maidens.”

“So this man that you covet has not dishonored you?”

She shook her head rapidly, “Never, Septon. He wouldn’t. I’m the one who shamed myself by telling him of my affection and by kissing him, not to mention by harboring this longing for him in the first place.”

“You long for this man in a physical way?”

_Do I?_

“Yes, Septon. I covet him in all ways. His mind, his heart, and his body. I should be praying each night that the Gods will choose the most righteous among us to win the tourney and the honor that comes with it. Instead I pray that he will win, and that I will win.”

The Septon nodded though his eyes bore disappointment. _It’s working!_

“Have you ever longed for another man the way you long for this man?”

Sansa had to think about her response, even though the answer was obvious to her. If she confessed to longing for other men, it would paint her as a strumpet, which would no doubt get her eliminated. But the Septon would ask for details, and she’d have to lie. Perhaps by admitting this was the only man she had ever longed for would make her current crime sound all the more awful.

She shook her head, “No, nothing like this. I can admit I’ve found other lords to be comely, or well-mannered, but it’s only for this man, this warrior, that my heart and body betray me in such an unholy way. The Maiden is pure of heart and body. She is innocent of carnal lust. While my body is still pure, my heart clearly is not, nor can I honestly claim to not have experienced desires of the flesh.”

The Septon’s eyes narrowed, “And have you considered what you would do if he wins, but you do not?”

“I will return home, of course, and let my father make a suitable match for me.”

“And if you win, but he doesn’t?”

Her brow furrowed, and anger swelled in her chest. Obviously, she wasn’t going to win; was the Septon now trying to torment her? Get her to admit that she’d marry one man and continue pining for another?

She frowned; looking petulant couldn’t hurt her cause, “Then I shall marry the winner, and pray that I can honor my lord husband as he deserves to be honored.”

_That should do it – acknowledge that I might always long for man who is not my husband, even though I know it is wrong._

The Septon nodded, “Thank you, Lady Sansa. You have spoken honest and true, and the Father forgives you.”

…

Sansa attended the midday meal even though her fear of Ser Gregor had not diminished. It would be the first time she luncheoned with the others; she usually used the time to nap or prepare for her next performance. Breakfast and dinner were more than enough for her, anyway.

 _You eat like a bird_ , father always said.

_Yes, Father, I do. Like a little bird. A pretty little bird. A pretty little cuckoo bird._

Sandor was there, but so was Gregor. She could not warn Sandor without his brother overhearing.

She sighed as she moved food around her plate. Jeyne, Sarah, and Myra chatted nervously.

Sansa had been so self-absorbed these past days that it was only now that she realized the tourney had lost its luster for the other maidens, as well. They whispered their fears that one of the Clegane men would win. They whispered about their wish that Garlan Tyrell would win. If not him, then the Northman named Donald. Donald wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was compared to Sandor’s scarred face and Gregor’s terrifying visage. Sansa wanted to laugh at them. Perhaps Donald was a good man, but Ser Garlan wasn’t. Sandor was the best man at that table, if they would choose to look past his scars and his uncourtly manners.

Sansa lowered her voice and leaned in, the other girls following her lead, “I must tell you, ladies, it has been an honor meeting you, but I believe I will not be moving forward today. I—”

“What do you mean?” Jeyne queried.

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is what I’m about to say to whomever of you may win: if Ser Gregor wins, you must try to find a way out of the marriage. Lie if you must. Or… or break your own maidenhead and claim to have lain with another man. Do not worry for your damaged reputation, for if you are wed to Ser Gregor, you will be damaged in far worse ways…”

“How do you know this?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with fright.

“Ser Gregor… he accosted me last night. He did not hurt me, but he threatened to do vile things to me – things I will not repeat here.”

Myra, the lowest born of the bunch, narrowed her eyes, “You’re trying to scare us so we resign, then you can win.”

“I _am_ trying to scare you, but not for that reason! Believe me, I no longer wish to win. Not if it means wedding Ser Gregor, or even Ser Garlan.”

“Ser Garlan?” Sarah peeped too loudly. No doubt the men heard her. She lowered her voice again, “But he is an honored knight.”

“Perhaps, but he is not an honorable man. He and his sister Margaery tried to put me in a compromising position, likely to have me disqualified from the competition. This was before the tourney even began.”

Myra shook her head, addressing the two other girls, “Don’t listen to the princess, she’s trying to manipulate you into withdrawing.”

“I am _not_. I do not wish for any of you to withdraw. Only if Ser Gregor wins should you take action; have you not been listening to me?”

Jeyne nodded, “I believe you, Sansa. But what of the Hound? Is he not just as bad as his brother?”

Sansa couldn’t help but let a sad smile form, “He is not a bad man. Crude-spoken, ill-refined, physically intimidating, but no, he has a kind heart.”

Sarah looked appalled. Myra rolled her eyes, “No wonder you’ve gotten so far in this competition, you lie so well, don’t you? I bet you didn’t sew that dress but had servants make it. And what did you confess today?” Myra fixed an exaggerated pout on her lips, “that the worst thing you’ve ever done is stepped on a poor little spider?”

Sansa shook her head, ignoring the girl, “Jeyne, Sarah, please heed my words. I wish the best to both of you, but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t wish Ser Gregor on any woman.”

With a fool’s courage fed by Myra’s obstinacy, Sansa rose and walked to the men’s table. It wasn’t prohibited for the men and women to fraternize, but few of the maidens ever did, knowing it could look like an act of flirtation.

All four heads rose and stared at her. Sandor, Donald, and Garlan looked confused. Gregor looked pleased.

She straightened her back and chose her words carefully, hoping the message would be received, “Sers, I wanted to wish you well today. I understand today’s duel has a history of being a _bloody_ affair. I hope _none_ of you takes on unnecessary risk. I can assure that neither I nor my companions are worth any of your _lives_.”

She curtsied deeply then turned to return to her companions, but the sound of a cup being clanked roughly on the table caught her attention. She turned to find Gregor’s too-familiar smirk, “Don’t worry, pretty lady, I will keep my promise.”

**Sandor**

Fury threatened to blind Sandor as he and the other contenders made their way to the fighting pits. What promise had Gregor made to Sansa? When had he even spoken to her?

_Last night, when she fled the Gardens and you didn’t follow._

Sandor was glad he only ate a few bites of his lunch, or else he’d be regurgitating it now.

_And what of her words? It was a warning, no doubt, but to whom?_

Sandor desperately needed to speak with her, and not just to get an explanation for all these questions. He needed to tell her he had been a coward and a fool. He would drop on his knees and proclaim his commitment once again: to kill Gregor, to win the tourney, to take her as his bride, and to honor her as best he was able. If he had lost her inexplicable affection, he would leave her alone. He’d never force himself on her. She could die a maiden if she chose, or take a lover, someone handsome and whole.

_Well, perhaps not that part._

But what would it matter if she had sabotaged her chances?

_Then she will fly away to the north, and I’ll do everything in my power to kill Gregor, at this tourney or after. I’ll hunt him down and kill him, no matter if it costs my head. Perhaps I’ll regain her favor through my sacrifice. Perhaps the Gods will let me stay in this world as a ghost and I’ll watch over Sansa Stark. Her silent shadow. Her true knight…_

Gregor strutted over to him, arrogance reverberating in every step. He leaned against the wall, staring straight ahead just as Sandor was doing.

“Wondering what I promised your little lady?”

Sandor said nothing, only spit on the ground in front of Gregor’s feet without even sparing him a glance.

Gregor chuckled, “I promised to take her maidenhead, even if I already have another maiden’s blood on my cock.”

Garland and Donald turned to stare at the brothers, eyes wide. Soldiers and nights would often speak crudely when no ladies were around to bear witness, but Gregor’s words were crude even by soldier’s standards.

“Oh,” Gregor nodded, as if only an afterthought, “and while your blood is still on my hands.”

Gregor strutted off, his giant shadow cast over Sandor’s boots until he was several paces away.

A calm fury took over Sandor, and everything else faded away until he found himself back at the beginning. Only now, instead of killing Gregor being his singular goal, it was Gregor’s death as his singular goal. If some magical lightning bolt came down from the clear blue sky and struck his brother’s ugly head, it would be no less satisfying than snipping off that head with his own sword

Sandor didn’t turn to face his other two opponents as he spoke, “If either of you kills that big fucker, you have my word, I’ll lay down my sword; you won’t have to fight the Hound. And if it please you, I’ll come serve in your fancy new castle. I’ll do your bidding, I’ll do your killing. Until the day I die.”

He finally turned, only to gauge their reactions. They swallowed and nodded almost in perfect unison, and on any other day the sight would have made Sandor laugh.

Donald was the first to speak, “I’d gladly do it, if for no other reason than to defend the honor of our princess of the North.”

Garlan met Sandor’s eyes, probably for the first time since the night Sandor almost broke his elbow in the gardens, “I nearly disgraced Lady Sansa and myself to do my sister’s bidding. If I should face your brother today, I shall redeem myself or die trying. If it should be the latter, I only wish one of you would pass along my apologies to the lady.”

Sandor was tempted to call horseshit, but there was no deception in Garlan’s brown eyes. He was a spineless fuck for letting his vapid little sister order him around, but perhaps he was not completely without honor, after all.

And if Garlan Tyrell had some honor, then so did Sandor Clegane. He took a deep breath, then patted the left breast of his armor, under which a folded handkerchief lay.

**Sansa**

Sansa didn’t think she could handle the suspense. Her own _personal_ fears, which were oppressive this morning, had evaporated into thin air the moment she took her seat in the allotted section. Four maidens surrounded by a dozen guards and a half dozen Septas.

Not twenty yards away was the Royal dais, where King Robert and Queen Cersei sat along with their two sons and a small army of guards wearing black and gold cloaks.

Commoners and courtiers alike filled the rest of the stands, thirsting for a bloodbath. Sansa cursed them all, and even cursed the Faith. The Warrior had his place among the Gods to _protect…_ to fight for a just cause. This spectacle had no purpose whatsoever. It became glaringly obvious that it was done to keep the people’s interest in the Faith by giving them what they wanted to see: men killing each other for sport, and beautiful women being put on display.

 _I hate you_ , she shouted within her own mind. _If I leave here alive, I will never worship the Seven again. I will worship the Old Gods, like my father. I will seek their counsel and their forgiveness, not yours._

The elder Septon walked to the center of the pits and announced the matches – chosen at random.

“Ser Garlan of House Tyrell, in the Reach, shall face Ser Gregor of House Clegane, in the Westerlands.”

Sansa shrieked in delight, earning queer looks from all those around her. Ser Garlan may be no gentleman, but he was a fierce fighter. If he could kill Ser Gregor, or perhaps injure him, then Sandor wouldn’t die!

“Donald Snow, sworn to House Karstark, hailing from the North, shall face Sandor of House Clegane, hailing from the Westerlands.”

Sansa wondered if it was not a random choice – did the Faith wish to delay the brother-against-brother match until it was unavoidable? Kinslaying was the most vicious form of violence in the eyes of the Faith. It would not be surprising if they wanted to avoid being host to it, if at all possible.

The duels took place simultaneously, on opposite sides of the pit. Donald and Sandor were closest to Sansa. She watched the men cautiously circling one another even as several yards away from them the sound of steel on steel signaled that Gregor and Garlan were fiercely engaged already.

When Sandor and Donald’s duel intensified and they began exchanging jabs and thrusts, Sansa could not watch. She feared for Sandor’s life and health, but she also didn’t want Donald to fall – he, a bastard son of the North who had already made it this far. If only both men could win, and each take their pick from among the four remaining maidens. Feeling generous, she even thought Ser Garlan should be allowed to share the victory and the reward. _He can have Myra._

A loud grunt forced her eyes to fling open. Sandor was on his back.

“No!” she yelped, and squeezed her eyes shut again, covering them with her hands as an extra precaution.

Jeyne clutched her wrist, “Are you alright, Sansa?” she whispered.

“No,” Sansa shook her head like a cranky child, “No I’m not alright. I wish I never came to this city. I don’t want to see any of these men hurt or killed. Except…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Jeyne’s hand moved to stroke her back, then the girl leaned even closer, her breath tickling Sansa’s ear as she spoke, “Do you want me to tell you what is happening with the Hound so you don’t have to watch?”

“No… I can’t… tell me of Ser Gregor and Ser Garlan.”

“They’ve slowed a bit. I think Ser Garlan is wearing the larger man down.”

“Oh, thank the Gods!” Sansa sighed, “And San- the Hound, he hasn’t fallen yet, has he?”

“No, Sansa. He’s on his feet, looking no worse for wear.”

“Oh, thank you Jeyne!”

An indeterminate amount of time passed, and Sansa felt no shame in not being able to watch. Ladies weren’t supposed to relish in such violence, for one thing; and for another thing, she’d never have to see these people again. She’d be eliminated today. She wouldn’t stay to watch tomorrow’s fight to the death. The idea of Sandor winning and wedding one of the other maidens didn’t even bother her, not truly, because it would mean he survived. That was all that mattered to her now, of even greater importance than Gregor dying.

_I take it back, I do believe in you! Warrior, Mother, Father, Maiden, Crone, Smith… protect him, all of you. I won’t ask anything else of you. And Stranger, you leave him be._

“Yield!”

Sansa’s head snapped up. Donald Snow was on his back, his sword just out of arm’s reach, and Sandor stood over him with the point of his steel to the man’s neck.

Sandor sheathed his sword immediately and offered his hand to help the man rise.

Sansa turned to Jeyne, grinning from ear to ear.

Then an odd noise came from the pits, and a blood-curdling scream came from the stands.

Sansa followed the scream first and her eyes found Margaery Tyrell, standing out among the courtiers in attendance. Her hands were on her mouth, and a man next to her was trying to pull her into his arms, though Margaery looked as rigid as a plank.

Sansa followed Margaery’s gaze to the pits. She blinked several times, trying to make sense of the sight. Ser Gregor was standing, panting like a wild beast, his sword hanging loose at his side. Ser Garlan was lying on the ground, his legs splayed out and pointed in the opposite direction of where Sansa was sitting. But the top of his head was nothing but blood. She couldn’t even make out any hair or skin. Blood kept pumping out of his head, spreading through the dirt. The crowd was silent, perhaps as confused as Sansa.

Then she saw it. Squinting her eyes she saw a head, still in its helm, laying several feet away from the body.

_So the bloody thing isn’t the top of his head; it’s his neck. Well that makes more sense._

Sansa turned to Jeyne to find the girl had gone ashen, or rather _green_.

Sarah and Myra looked similarly affected. Then Sarah’s mouth opened, and half-digested food came out with a surprising force, landing on the back of the Septa in front of her. Sansa began giggling before realizing how improper it would look. She wasn’t laughing at Sarah or the poor Septa. She was laughing because the Gods had answered her prayer, only now she realized she wasn’t specific enough. Sandor had survived, but so did Gregor. Tomorrow Sandor would be killed by Gregor while she – hopefully – would be riding toward Winterfell with a royal escort. No one could withstand Ser Gregor. He was indeed a monster, and a beast. Perhaps he wasn’t even a man.

_Sandor will be killed._

_No one can withstand Ser Gregor._

_Sandor will be killed._

…

Sansa didn’t remember how Sarah and the Septa got cleaned up. She didn’t remember seeing anyone cart away poor Garlan’s body (and head). She didn’t see anyone cover the blood with dirt. She didn’t even remember being led to the center of the fighting pits.

Yet there she stood, with three other maidens and two warriors who happened to be brothers.

The Septon spoke loud for all to hear: “Two hours after dawn on the morrow, a duel will take place between Ser Gregor of House Clegane and Sandor of House Clegane. There will be only one survivor, only one victor. But the man who is victorious will be given the most precious gifts: marriage to the fairest Maiden in all of Westeros; a lordship and a fine keep; and enough gold dragons to see his family and people into prosperity!”

The Septon paused while the crowd cheered. Sansa gazed around the crowds, wondering why they were so pleased. They wouldn’t get the gold, or the castle, or the bride. Why did they care?

The Septon continued, “Now it is time to find out which of our lovely Maidens the victor shall fight for…”

There was a deliberate pause during which Sansa only stared at the Septon’s wrinkled throat.

“Sansa of House Stark!” the Septon said.

_Oh, they’re announcing all the losers._

Sansa wasn’t sure if she was meant to walk away, offer some polite speech, or do nothing.

So she did nothing.

And all eyes stared at her.

Sansa looked at the Septon, “Shall I leave, Septon?”

His brow crinkled, “You should step forward, Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she stepped toward the Septon, expecting him to offer some conciliatory words, or to tell her to make a parting speech.

The man shook his head and pulled her closer, raising her arm in the air, “I present the Maiden of the Tourney of the Seven, Lady Sansa of House Stark!”

“What?!” Sansa yanked her arm away.

The Septon’s eyes widened, “You’ve won the Maiden’s Tourney, my lady.”

She shook her head vigorously, “No I haven’t!”

The man laughed, “The excitement has gotten to your senses, my dear, but I assure you, you have been crowned the Maiden.”

For the first time since arriving in the pits, Sansa turned to face the _warriors._ Gregor stared at her like the cat who’s caught the canary. Sandor’s head was lowered, but his eyes were fixed on her from beneath his brow, his expression unreadable.

But the longer she stared at them, the fuzzier they became. The Septon disappeared from her field of vision, along with the other maidens. In their place was a blurry grayness that rippled like a pond’s surface during a rainstorm. All she could see was Gregor and Sandor. Then only Sandor. Then nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Tourney Day 7_ **

**Sansa**

Sansa awoke in her room. The room was a grayish blue, turning dark as the sun dipped low.

Sansa sat up with a start as images flooded back into her mind.

_Sandor won. Gregor won. I won._

She threw off her bedcovers only to gasp when she realized she wasn’t alone. A young Septa slept in a chair only a few feet from Sansa. Was this some type of extra precaution to make sure the Maiden remained a maiden for the final night of the tourney?

Sansa shook her head. It didn’t matter.

She gently squeezed the woman’s hand until she woke. Sansa allowed her to get her bearings before she spoke, “Please, Septa, before it gets too late, I need to request an audience with King Robert. Or Queen Cersei if the king is indisposed.”

The woman stared at her, “What ever for, my lady?”

“I- I feel my life is in danger. One of the warriors has threatened me with bodily harm. I must meet with the king and request to have my own guards, at minimum, or an escort back to Winterfell, if he permits it.”

The woman eyed her for long seconds before lifting a brow, “Not pleased with the outcome of yesterday’s duel, my lady?”

“What? You mean _today’s_ duel.”

The woman shook her head, “It’s dawn, my lady, on the morning of the final duel. The seventh day of the Tourney of the Seven. And you didn’t answer my question, Lady Sansa.”

“Dawn?! No… that means I only have two hours until the duel! Please, Septa, I need to see the King or Queen at once!”

The woman took her hand, “I understand neither men are what most maidens would fancy, but the rules are clear. Never have I seen any two men so perfectly embody the Warrior.”

“That’s… not the point! Ser Gregor threatened me and—”

“Why would Ser Gregor threaten a woman he may very well be wed to? What purpose would that serve?”

“It was a couple nights ago that he made the threat. At the time, neither his nor my victory was assured. Please, Septa, we’re—”

“Why did you not tell anyone about this threat? Did you not have ample opportunity when you met with the Septon yesterday?”

“I didn’t think anyone would believe me! And clearly I was right!”

The woman exhaled, “Lady Sansa, I understand your fears, even if I have not experienced them myself. The prospect of laying with a man for the first time, particularly such a… _large_ man, must be troubling. But you and your husband, whichever man it may be, will be loved throughout the realm. It would be foolish for him to hurt his wife, the woman who will give him joy and children.”

“You don’t understand! He is a _cruel_ man. His own brother told me!”

Her eyebrow arched again, “His brother? You mean his _opponent?”_

Sansa threw herself on her bed, her plan falling to pieces too many and too small for her to pick up.

The Septa sat on the bed and stroked Sansa’s hair. It took all her self-control not to smack away the woman’s hand. “Dear child, you have been honored in a way so few ladies ever are. You, and whichever man wins you, will be blessed by the Seven. You will be blessed with respect, happiness, and children. Think of all you have each achieved in the past six days, not to mention your entire lives up to this point. Do you think the Seven would bring you together if you weren’t _meant_ to be together?”

_Meant to be together?_

A knock sounded on the door. The Septa whispered to Sansa, “Dry your eyes now, my lady, your maids are here to help you bathe and dress for today’s festivities. Remember, child, the Gods are with you this day, and all of your days. You have been blessed by the Seven.”

Sansa nodded, resigning herself to the fact that she would not be allowed to see the king this morning. And that maybe – _maybe_ – the Septa was right. Would the Gods truly spare Gregor and not Sandor? Would they give Sansa to a monster like Gregor? If the Gods were that cruel, then no doubt Sansa would receive their wrath anyway, later if not sooner.

“Perhaps you are right, Septa. But if it is not improper to request this, perhaps you might pray that Sandor Clegane wins today?”

The woman stared at her once again, only this time there was something sympathetic in her eyes. _Perhaps she finally believes me._

The woman nodded solemnly, “It is not for me to take sides in this Tourney of the Seven. But I am only a human, after all. And humans make mistakes, from time to time.”

**Sandor**

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way today. This was the day he’d been waiting for, planning for, and training for his entire life. Today was his chance to kill Gregor Clegane without facing any consequences. Today should be a good day.

But instead, today was the worst day of his life.

_No – there’s been one other day worse than this one…_

Today’s joy was tainted by the fact that if Sandor fell, Gregor would claim Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark, here in the capital, with no family to protect her.

He could tell by her reaction yesterday that she did not expect to win. No doubt the clever little bird had concocted some plan to lose the competition and leave the capital.

Sandor laughed humorlessly. _Sansa Stark tried her best to lose, and she still won. She can’t help but be perfect, my pretty little bird._

If he survived this day, he’d ask her what her _losing strategy_ had been. He would have sought her out to ask her last night, but the poor lass fainted right there in the pits and was carted off by a maester who told the worried Septon he’d put a drop of sweet sleep under her tongue so she’d rest for the remainder of the day and night and wake refreshed for the final day of competition. _Gods forbid the Maiden shows up with dark circles under her eyes – what a scandal that would make!_

Sandor had requested a drop of the stuff himself, foregoing dinner so he, too, could rest. He knew without the aid of a sedative he wouldn’t sleep a wink. And he needed his sleep. Today was too important for him. And for her.

He stood in the center of the pits now, the low Spring sun dispelling the chill of the morning air. Any minute now the Maiden would be marched out to give her well wishes to the last two warriors.

He reminded himself of his strategy, one he’d devised over years of studying his brother’s fighting techniques. Gregor’s only true weakness was also his greatest strength: his size. It meant that he tired quickly. But like a cornered dog, Gregor’s violence came out in full force when he felt vulnerable. Thus it was unwise to attack when Gregor first showed signs of tiring. Better to wait patiently until he became exhausted. Only then were his strikes less accurate and less powerful.

Gregor would fight with a two-handed greatsword. A well-placed strike could cut through armor and into bone. Sandor would fight with a longsword that could be almost as deadly, when wielded with two hands, but that could also be effective with one hand. If Sandor could land a crippling blow to either of Gregor’s arms, the odds would shift greatly in his favor. But he wouldn’t be hasty in making such a move. Gregor knew how to capitalize on reckless, wide-arced swings. He’d be waiting for Sandor to make such a mistake. If Sandor made no mistakes, he should be able to thwart or evade Gregor’s blows long enough to exhaust him. Only then would he unleash the Hound.

_A mountain is large and immoveable, but it has no teeth, no claws._

Sandor’s trance broke at the sight of the little bird walking across the pits. She wore a blue silk gown that matched her eyes perfectly. Her hair sparkled in the sunlight – a million strands of gold, copper, and crimson silk woven into an intricate braid. Her chin was high, her back was straight, and her eyes were ice. With four knights in her wake, she looked more like a queen than a maiden.

The knights stood several paces back as she stopped an arm’s length in front of Sandor. Even his fears couldn’t keep him from grinning at her as he bowed as deeply as his armor allowed, while she curtsied impossibly low.

“Sandor Clegane, I will pray to both the Old Gods and the New that you will see victory today. May your sword be true. May your shield be strong. May your courage and strength not fail you this day.”

Sandor wasn’t sure if he was meant to say words, but he had plenty to say, and no better opportunity than this, “My shield may shatter, my sword may break, but my courage and strength will never fail, not when I fight for such a worthy cause. The commitment I made to you still stands, my lady. I _will_ win today, then the _real_ challenge will begin.”

One slender auburn eyebrow raised, “And what challenge might that be?”

Though it did nothing to improve his appearance, Sandor’s grin widened, “To be worthy of you, little bird.”

She tipped her head, doing an admirable job of not letting her own smirk show, then took six steps to stand in front of Gregor. Her voice was lower now, but still audible to Sandor, if not to anyone else.

“Ser Gregor,” she curtsied.

He bowed, “ _Little bird.”_

“Ser Garlan exposed your weaknesses, Ser, even if he was unable to capitalize on them. I’ve no doubt you will fall today, and I will relish every second of watching it happen. But the Gods abhor arrogance, so I’ll not invite their wrath by denying the small chance that you may win. I’ll only tell you that should you be victorious, I’ll slit my own throat before I let you touch me. May the Mother take mercy on you, for if not, you shall burn for an eternity in the Seven Hells.”

She turned on her heels and strode away without giving Gregor an opportunity for retort. Sandor could only watch her hair and hips swaying to the rhythm of her steps, as he stood in utter awe of his fierce little bird.

 _No, my fierce little_ wolf _._

He only wondered what she saw in Gregor and Garlan’s duel that she referred to now. What would a highborn lass know of swordsmanship and footwork?

_Perhaps she saw nothing… nothing but an opportunity to get under Gregor’s skin. To make him act recklessly as he tries to over-compensate for some imaginary flaw…_

Either way, she was a clever little bird indeed.

**Sansa**

Sansa took her place in the stands, allowing a sense of pride to mingle with her fear.

She’d received a surprise visit this morning. Sarah, Jeyne, and even Myra requested entry to check in on their “friend” since the last they saw her she was flopping bonelessly into the dirt.

While a maid braided Sansa’s hair and the young Septa read in the corner, the girls gathered round.

 _“Your Hound can beat the Mountain,”_ Jeyne smiled.

 _“I know he_ can _…”_

Myra rolled her eyes, _“She means he_ will _beat the Mountain.”_

_“What do you mean? How do you know?”_

Myra answered for both girls, _“We’ve both seen our share of sparring in training yards. Men think women don’t understand it, but it’s not so complicated as they pretend it is.”_

_“And? What did you see?!”_

_“Ser Gregor’s sword is cumbersome. After his first few swings he tires a bit, and it takes more effort to raise the sword.”_

_“Makes sense… but surely anyone could know this.”_

_“Yes,”_ Jeyne nodded, _“but when he tires, he tends to swing only from his dominant side. He can’t backhand the great sword. He leaves his left side vulnerable, and moreover, his stance suffers. His dominant leg – his right one – comes too far forward, and he isn’t quick enough in stepping back when his opponent advances.”_

_“Soo… you mean to say Sandor can win by going after his right leg?”_

The girls nodded in tandem, as Jeyne continued, _“A strike or even kick to his leg will bring a man his size down. He won’t be quick to get up.”_

_“But wouldn’t Sandor have noticed this?”_

Myra shrugged, _“If he’s any good he has, but he couldn’t exactly have been watching while Gregor and Garlan fought, as he was occupied at the time. And it may only be a recent development – Gregor could have been injured or weakened in a prior duel or joust.”_

 _“But what am I to do with this information?”_ Sansa pleaded, _“I’ll only see Sandor again when Gregor is there. If Gregor knows, then he’ll correct the mistake, won’t he?”_

The girls shrugged again, but Sansa had already been formulating a plan. If she made a vague allusion to a deficiency in front of both Sandor and Gregor, it might serve dual purposes. For one, Sandor would know to look for a vulnerability in Gregor. For two, it might diminish Gregor’s confidence. Sansa could relate to that feeling. She enjoyed playing the harp, but when her tutor was particularly critical, Sansa had a hard time recovering. She’d try too hard and end up losing the rhythm that otherwise came naturally to her.

It wasn’t much, but any little bit helped…

Sansa smiled at the crowd around her, who looked upon her like she was a queen. No matter what happened today, she would sit tall and proud. She would not let fear show on her face; it would inspire Gregor and concern Sandor, if either should have the opportunity to look upon her.

No… she would be a wolf today, no matter what. If Sandor fell, she would run to the king on his dais, propriety be damned. She would fall to her knees and tell him everything and beg for his protection against Gregor.

If the king didn’t take her seriously, and the wedding was set to continue, she would try to flee on her own. But if she couldn’t, then she would stab her own throat with her sewing scissors. Perhaps that prospect should have frightened her, but instead it filled her with a sense of control. She had power over her fate. She would die a maiden, untainted by cruel men like Gregor Clegane.

She knew her family would suffer, but no worse than if they learned she’d been raped to death by her husband. In time they’d find peace in knowing she went out as a wolf.

The saddest prospect by far was the possibility of Sandor’s death at the hands of the same brother who so viciously hurt him. After their last private encounter, Sansa wasn’t sure how Sandor felt about her. Was he now only motivated by the chance to kill his brother? Did he no longer care to take Sansa as his bride? Was he disappointed when she was named the Maiden?

But his words today, just minutes ago, dispelled those fears. He renewed his commitment to protect her and, even better, to strive to be worthy of her!

_Oh if he only knew that saving me from his brother is more than enough to make him worthy of me! In fact, I’ll be the one striving to be worthy of him!_

Sansa’s heart was filled with glee that threatened to vanquish her fear. To marry such a strong, capable man – a man who would never dishonor her, never hurt her… her heart was aflutter.

Was it possible to fall in love with a man in less than a sennight, even when one of those nights was spent arguing with him? And was it truly an argument? Now Sansa replayed his words in his mind, and no longer did they sound mean and hateful, they sounded frightened and vulnerable. He’d rarely been shown any affection in his life, so was it really so wrong that he doubted whether hers was authentic? If Sansa was a lowborn girl with scars on her face and some valiant, handsome, highborn lord showed her affection, would she not question it? Of course she would! She’d accuse him of only being interested in what’s between her legs, or perhaps of pretending to fancy her so that he could later humiliate her once she returned his affection.

_Poor Sandor. Perhaps he’s never known love. Perhaps no one has ever looked on him kindly. And yet he didn’t become a monster like Gregor. He is more of a knight than Gregor will ever be!_

The horn blew, and it was like being yanked awake from a pleasant dream. Sansa would not look away this time, but she would close her eyes just long enough to pray…

_Warrior… there is only one man in this duel who is worthy of bearing your name. You know which one he is. Do not let him fall._

_Do not let him fall._

_Do not let him fall._

**Sandor**

Sandor stuck to his plan, taking his time, moving economically, and observing his opponent.

Gregor was more cautious than usual. He had a habit of charging quickly, using his intimidating appearance and brute strength to wear down his opponents before he himself could tire. The fact that he was breaking that tradition meant he either respected Sandor or the little bird’s words had gotten to him, implanting a sense of insecurity.

The men circled and exchanged exploratory thrusts for many minutes. At this pace, even Gregor wouldn’t tire quickly, but Sandor could not rush it. Not when _everything_ that mattered to him was at risk.

He ignored the crowd’s boos. They wanted to watch the Clegane brothers tear each other apart. But none of those buggers was within reach of Gregor’s six-foot-long sword. _Probably weighs more than the little bird._

When it was clear Gregor’s restraint would not be short-lived, Sandor tried to goad him, “Not looking very fierce, are we? Perhaps the little bird is braver than both of us.”

“Speak for yourself, little brother; I’ve seen fear in that girl’s eyes. Easy to be brave with dozens of knights and hundreds of spectators around her. Won’t be so easy when I have her arms pinned to the bed.”

Apparently, neither man was taking the bait, as they continued at their cautious pace. Sandor needed to make Gregor swing his bloody sword for true. He began speaking again, capturing Gregor’s attention, then advanced quickly and swung high.

Gregor met his strike and Sandor focused on holding tightly onto his sword hilt as the force was enough to send the weapon flying. Neither was injured or disarmed.

The dance continued like this for many more minutes, to the continued disappointment of the crowd.

It was Gregor who threw the next meaningful thrust, bringing his longsword down on Sandor’s shield. The pain reverberated up his left arm and into his shoulder, but the shield was intact. Sandor stepped out of Gregor’s reach to avoid taking back-to-back blows.

Gregor advanced, taking Sandor’s retreat as an opportunity. He swung again. The shield held, but the force had been even greater.

And just like that, the pace of the dance accelerated. Gregor was employing his go-to tactic: relentless attack. Sandor had no option but to endure it until Gregor tired, but it was easier said than done. Sandor had never faced a man with such brute strength, it was something one never got the opportunity to prepare for. Sandor went into defense mode, circling out of reach of Gregor’s sword, keeping his shield side facing Gregor. Gregor swung and hacked like he was chopping wood, Sandor doing everything he could to only take the partial force of any blow.

Then it happened.

Gregor swung and Sandor sidestepped far out of his way. Gregor stumbled and almost fell, and the opportunity was there to strike him undeflected, but Sandor was too far away, and Gregor quickly retook his stance. But his stance was off kilter. Most of his weight was on his right leg, though Gregor did an impressive job of hiding the fact that his left was injured. Sandor kept himself on Gregor’s left, hoping for an opportunity to strike the weak leg, but Gregor kept pivoting.

_Strong side then, make him pivot off the weak leg._

Sandor circled him and swung with a backhand. Gregor parried easily but shifting his weight made him stumble again. Sandor would not waste another opportunity; he advanced, shield low in case Gregor swung up. He swung down on Gregor’s left shoulder and for the first time all day, sword met armor.

The force of the blow spun Gregor to his knees, and Sandor swung at Gregor’s neck, but Gregor dropped and rolled, kicking Sandor’s feet out.

Sandor landed on his back with a thud and, without knowing where Gregor was, rolled to his right and pushed himself off the ground. As he was trying to right himself, though, he was met by the force of a wave. Gregor had flung himself at Sandor and he found himself once again on his back, only this time Gregor hovered above him, the very image of madness. Gregor’s fist came down hard on Sandor’s helm, then his ribs, then his helm again. Sandor’s fingers clamped around his sword hilt and brought it up hard, crushing the beveled tip against Gregor’s temple enough to dent his helm.

His shield had flown off sometime during the collision of bodies and Sandor reached for his dagger with his left hand while continuing to strike Gregor in the temple.

In Gregor’s rage he was pummeling Sandor but not defending himself. _He means to beat me to death, right through my armor._

Sandor thrust the dagger into Gregor’s left armpit, at the joint of his armor, but Gregor was barely fazed. His large hands stopped raining blows and instead tightened around Sandor’s neck. Gregor was more than capable of killing a man this way within moments. Sandor used his knees and right leg to try to push Gregor away while his left twisted the dagger. The way Gregor’s arms were positioned Sandor couldn’t get his hand inside in order to slice Gregor in the throat, and clearly he couldn’t kill Gregor with a jab to the underarm before Gregor strangled him to death.

Sandor’s right hand desperately searched for the sword he’d let go of in order to push Gregor away, but the four-foot sword was near useless in such close quarters.

_Unless…_

Sandor’s periphery was darkening when his fingertips finally found the pommel. He pulled it closer then grasped it not at the hilt, but halfway down the blade.

_This is going to hurt._

Sandor gripped the sharp steel and thrust it into Gregor’s neck. The force of his grip and the subsequent sliding of his fingers along the blade when the sword met the resistance of Gregor’s flesh sliced deeply into his palm and fingers, but finally Gregor’s hands unclamped from Sandor’s neck. As Gregor fell to one side Sandor rolled the other direction while gasping for air and adjusting to the vision that was flooding back into his eyes.

Gregor was as good as dead based on the blood spurting from his neck, but he was determined to bring Sandor down with him. He reached for his dagger and charged. Sandor picked up his sword with his left hand, but it was too late. Gregor’s dagger slipped right between his ribs at the seam where his armor was buckled on the sides. Sandor fell hard, landing on his right shoulder, and the world went black.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet chapter

**Sandor**

The little bird was fluttering above him. Not Sansa, but the little red bird. It landed on a tree branch and Sandor jumped up, trying to reach the branch, but it was too high. The little bird taunted him with its sweet little whistle, but as Sandor kept jumping the whistle started to sound like a song. He peered up at the red bird. Its beak wasn’t open, yet a song was emanating from its tiny body. The song was vaguely familiar.

_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_Teach us all a kinder way._

“Little bird, what song are you singing?”

The bird looked at him, cocked its head, then spread its wings and took flight.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war, we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day._

The song faded as the bird disappeared to nothing more than a speck against the grey sky. Sandor held up his hand in a futile attempt to bid the bird back, but it didn’t return.

Then a warmth filled his hand, though it was only dangling in the cool air.

“Little bird, come back,” he pleaded.

“I’m here, Sandor.”

Sandor’s eyes opened. The sky beyond the window was blue, not grey.

“Sandor!”

He turned his head and saw Sansa smiling at him with tears in her lashes.

“Little bird?”

“I’m here.”

“Where’s here? Are we in the Heavens?”

She chuckled then, “No, we’re in the Red Keep. We’re alive. Gregor is dead.”

Sandor tried to sit up, but a burning pain shot through his left side.

“No, you mustn’t! You must rest!”

“What… what happened?”

Sansa brought his bandage-wrapped hand to her cheek, “You won. You saved me. You saved yourself. You killed Gregor.”

“Aye, I gathered as much,” Sandor snorted, but it only made the pain return, “but… what happened to me?”

“You cut your fingers to the bone on your sword.”

“Aye, I remember that part.”

“In Gregor’s last moments he charged you and stabbed you between the ribs. He missed your heart by inches, the maester said. You see, the blade was pointed toward your back, not straight in or else it would have pierced your heart,” the tears fell down her cheeks and she pressed her mouth to Sandor’s knuckles, not kissing but stroking his fingers with her soft lips.

“Enough crying, little bird. We’re alive.”

“I know we are. I knew you would win. But I was so afraid, Sandor. Gregor landed on you and you were knocked unconscious, only at the time it looked like his strike had been fatal.”

“Aye; wouldn’t have been the worst thing. The realm would be free of both Clegane brothers, and you’d get to marry your pick of any handsome lordling.”

Her eyes flew open, “Don’t you dare talk like that, Sandor Clegane. I only wish to marry you, and you’d best get used to the idea because I won’t spend the rest of our lives explaining myself to you.”

Sandor shook his head, “You really are a cuckoo bird... I was cruel to you, Sansa.”

“But only because you thought I’d been cruel to you! I’ve thought about little else, Sandor. I don’t know anything about your life, other than your history with your brother. But I can imagine you haven’t been treated kindly. It’s no surprise that a woman’s sudden kindness would be suspicious to you. I shouldn’t have snapped at you that night. I should have listened. And I should have told you how I feel.”

“And how is it that you feel?” he rasped.

Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes held his bravely, “Like I love you… and don’t tell me I’m being silly. I’m old enough to know what I feel for you is unique. I’ve spent the last three years spurning the attentions of men my father tried to match me with. Their polite words, their handsome faces, their noble families – none of it held any allure to me. I’ve spent _five_ years hoping to win this _farce_ of a holy tourney, because I thought it would be like living a fairy tale. But now I know nothing about this is a fairy tale. Now I know all these years, all the actions and choices that brought me to this place, it wasn’t so I’d be crowned the Maiden. It was so that I’d meet you…”

Her eyes lowered to her lap, “And perhaps…” she bit her lip nervously.

“Perhaps what?” he croaked on a voice thick with emotions he was ill-equipped to handle.

“Perhaps all the years you spent training to get here weren’t just so that you’d have your revenge against Gregor. Perhaps it was also so that you’d meet me.”

All the sweet words she deserved to hear failed to manifest on his tongue. It took all his energy to rasp a pathetic reply, “Aye, might be.”

Her eyes brightened at hearing those three little words, and the sight threatened to wet his own eyes. Instead, he cleared his throat, “How long have I been out?”

“Five days. The maester kept dosing you with sweet sleep so that you wouldn’t move around. Oh, I forgot, among your more serious injuries you also have severely bruised ribs, but the maester says none are broken.”

Sandor nodded, “So what now, little bird?”

She smiled, “Our wedding is planned for a moon from now, so you’ll have ample time to recover. It also means my family can travel to the capital to witness our vows. Isn’t that wonderful?!”

Sandor groaned, “Not sure how pleased they’ll be to meet your _betrothed_.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to speak like that?!”

“Aye, but I don’t listen very well.”

“Well how can I make you listen? What can I do to make you believe that you are worthy of me?”

Sandor was tempted to answer “nothing” but instead he grinned, “A kiss would be a good start.”

She shook her head in admonishment, but a smile betrayed her pleasure, “I suppose it’s the least I can do, since you nearly died for me.”

“And I’ll nearly die for you a thousand times more if it means getting a thousand more kisses.”

She chuckled, “Sandor Clegane, _what_ am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to kiss me little bird, we’ll figure the rest out later.”


End file.
